A Little Adventure
by Winter's Frost
Summary: Lobelia, convinced that she's owed more than Bilbo left her, goes to Bag End and takes a few items that don't belong to her...
1. The argument

**Title: A Little Adventure**

**Author: Ice Princess******

**Summary: Lobelia, convinced that she's owed more than Bilbo left her, goes to Bag End and takes a few items that don't belong to her, some more important than others...**

**Rating: PG13 (to be safe)**

**Disclaimer:** all characters and places are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: Many thanks to ****Nicole Sabbati who actually came up with this idea. I'm just stealing it from her. She is an excellent writer….check out her work!**

   Billions of thanks to the lovely **SHIREBOUND regarding Lobelia's husband. It's been a while since I read the books and I somehow had it in my head that Lotho was Lobelia's husband and Otho her son, but it is the other way round. I must pay you with gold, shirebound!or cookies…or maybe marshmallow…**

Chapter one: the argument

"You spoiled little upstart you! Ungrateful son of a…"

"Ungrat-?"

"That's right! It's ours I tell you!"

"I don't believe-"

"Hold your tongue, you filthy maggot, or I'll release the full brunt of my rage!"

"Lob-"

"No! You've had your say! Respect your elders! Honestly, did Bilbo teach you _no manners?!"_

Frodo slumped against the door to Bag End, a synthetic smile twitching as it struggled to survive under the blades of hatred thrown from Lobelia's words. For not the first time since he had found himself in this little scenario he was seized by a bout of wishful thinking, annoyed with himself that he had not heeded Gandalf's words and been more particular about who he opened the door to. Lobelia may not have been an orc or any other vile servant of the enemy that Gandalf had weakly suggested may decide to become visitors, but at that moment he would rather have faced a whole army of the legendary beasts rather than the shrill voice of his relative.

"You're a disgrace!" Lobelia spat, practically inches away from him, edging ever closer with every anger soaked word. "A disgrace to the name of Baggins! Why your father married that good for nothing Brandybuck I'll never know, especially when the end result is a smirking wretch like you!"

Frodo's smile dipped under the malevolence, and the smile he had painfully adopted gave a threatening lurch. Taking a deep yet subtle breath to try and still the flurry of thoughts he could not banish at such words, he pulled himself up straight, trying to look more dignified and so more believable when he spoke his side of the argument.

"Lobelia," he said, bowing ever so slightly, yet underneath the gesture wishing that Bilbo had left sting behind to deal with this dragon. "I don't quite understand what you are worried about. Bilbo left quite explicit instructions about who was entitled to what, and I'm afraid that there is no more in Bag End which is due to you. I am sorry if you expected more."

"Sorry!" She shrieked, scaring a swarm of sparrows into the sky from a near by tree. "Sorry! We're entitled to more than spoons! We were due to be the beneficiaries of his estate, not you! We are due half of the belongings in this place!"

"I'm afraid you are not," Frodo said simply, causing Lobelia to stutter and turn to him in her rage, for few dared to stand up to her. For a moment he honestly believed that she was going to strike him, barge her way into Bag End and walk off with half its contents, but the worried whistling coming from Sam somewhere in the garden seem to remind her of her manners, and she backed off, though her eyes burned with unreleased hatred. 

Taking advantage of her temporary and rare silence, Frodo said: "Again all I can do is apologise, Lobelia. Bilbo was unusually specific with what was due to you and I can assure you there is nothing left to give. If you are still unhappy, perhaps I could show you Bilbo's instructions and you will see for yourself."

She was trapped, and Frodo knew it, for Bilbo _had been very specific on what to give the Sackville-Baggins, and the few items they had been given had been designed to annoy them. Bilbo had warned him that Lobelia may over react a little, but he doubted even he would expect such behaviour. Usually Lobelia hid her disgust of them under a low key of hostility, throwing the odd comment that only the victims of her poisoned words could correctly interpret. Now that Bilbo was gone she seemed to have abandoned the act, retaining the façade only when there were others around to hear her words. Unfortunately for Frodo, living on his own as he did, there was ample opportunity for Lobelia to catch him when he was unprotected by mulling crowds._

"You haven't heard the last of this," she seethed, waving a finger in his face, her own purpled.

"I do not doubt that," he replied, not backing away from the physical gesture or bothering to offer a nicety. He bowed again, signalling the end of the conversation, but Lobelia did not budge, and Frodo just stared at her, thoroughly fed up with her actions.

"I'm sorry to have to leave you," he said when it became obvious she would not leave unless told to do so, "but I am afraid that I have much to do, and little time to spare. Perhaps we could continue this discussion tomorrow at elevenses, if you would be so kind as to come."

The invitation was not one he wanted to offer, never mind for her to accept, but it was all he could do to keep his manners, sticking to the polite dialogue that he had heard Bilbo use so often when in their company. It was highly unlikely that she would accept the invitation for the very idea of being nice to him seemed to sicken her, and he was silently relived when she cried: "I will do no such thing, you waste of space!" She turned on her heel, her back facing him in the deepest sign of disrespect. "But I will come back on the morrow to collect what is mine." 

"I will look forward to it," he replied swiftly, unfazed. "But you will only get the same answer from a different source. You will gain no more from me tomorrow than you will today."

Lobelia, wrapped in a rage so thick and chocking it was impenetrable, whipped around and grabbed him by the sleeve with a surprising strength as he made to move back into the smial.

"You think you've got it made, don't you?" She hissed, pulling him away from the door frame. "Well you haven't won this yet. Why oh why such riches and prestige should be showered upon you is a mystery to me, and I for one want to make sure that you get what you rightfully deserve."

Frodo merely stared at her, face impassive. "You have already been given what you…er… deserve. Bilbo's will is very specific. There is nothing you can do; I will make sure of that."

"Curse you!" She spat, dropping his sleeve, but not before Sam, who had just popped from around a hedge, could see what she had done, his face blanching at the sight.

"There is nothing more that I can do for you," he said simply. "I bid you good day."

And with that he watched her turn in a swirl of frills from her dress, and storm down the path, her feet practically drilling into the earth as she huffed and puffed her way down the lane. 

The moment she was gone Frodo took a deep sigh of relief, and he leant against the door frame once again, one hand raised against his forehead to still his pounding head ache.

"Mr Frodo?" Frodo opened his eyes and looked wearily up at Samwise, who, in comparison, looked like he had just seen a ghost. Frodo smiled, realising that Sam had little knowledge of the venom of the Sackville-Baggins.

"Begging your pardon Mr Frodo, sir," Sam said, blushing slightly. "But I was just wondering if you are well. You look a bit bothered, if you know my meaning."

Frodo smiled. "I am perfectly well Sam," he said, though he rubbed his temples with his forefingers to quell the headache. "I am sorry that you had to hear that. I hope we did not disturb you."

"Of course not, Mr Frodo," Sam replied, seemingly still overwhelmed by what he had just heard. "There be no need to go apologising to your Sam."

"There is every need," Frodo countered, taking another deep breath. Had the argument really gotten to him so badly? "I am very sorry that you had to witness that. But," he said, stepping forward, dropping a friendly hand onto Sam's shoulder. "I was grateful that you were here. She daren't do more when others are around."

"She would do more, Mr Frodo?" Sam asked, shocked by the very idea. "I dread to think what!"

"Indeed," Frodo agreed. "But somehow I know it is not over. She will probably be hanging on the bell first thing on the morrow."

"Tis a shame," Sam said, "what with it being your birthday and all… "

"Yes," Frodo said again, a picture of Bilbo coming unbidden to his mind."They do have impeccable timing." He turned to watch the dwindling figure of Lobelia, then, as if struck by a sudden idea, Frodo turned to Sam and said: "Sam, do you care to come to the Green Dragon tonight? I am sharing a drink with my friends Merry and Pippin, and would be most delighted if you would come."

"w-what, me?" Sam stuttered, face scarlet, causing Frodo to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly.

"Why of course!" He said, laughing at his friend's reaction. "I normally prefer to stay in Bag End, but this little encounter has made me feel like I need a change. I would be most grateful if you would come with me. It would be my honour and just a small part of repaying you for all the excellent work you have done on the garden."

At this he gestured towards the flourishing flowers and sparkling saplings.  Sam blushed so his face was the colour of the roses that he had grown that year.

"I…would be most…honoured…" he stuttered. Frodo, smiling, took his hand from his shoulder. "Excellent! Perhaps a bit of ale will still the sour experience!"

"I think you'd need more than a bit," Sam said bravely, and Frodo laughed loudly. 

"You may be right, my dear Samwise." 

Sam looking a bit uncomfortable at his own words, and he looked away as if expecting a reprimand. Frodo, noticing his friend's discomfort, lightly embraced the gardener.

"Well, we shall see tonight how much ale we will need." He said, still chuckling, pulling away so he could look at his friend. "We shall see!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He did what!?"

"I know!"

"He won't give us anything!? But that property is ours! It is damn generous of us to allow him to have it! All we ask is to have our possessions back!"

"He's a rotten little troublemaker! You should have seen him smirking at me when I kindly asked to be shown the will…"

"He didn't…refuse…?"

"Oh he did, Otho! It's unbelievable! Wouldn't let me see it! Some nonsense about how he'd lost it…"

"Ridiculous!"

Lobelia stormed around her kitchen, meat knife being flung viscously through the air as she told her tale. Otho was sat at the kitchen table, an unlit pipe in his mouth temporarily forgotten.

"Unbelievable! A travesty! We are entitled to more than spoons!"

"That's what I said…"

"And he didn't…"

"No!"

"Not even…"

"No!"

"Unheard of!" 

Otho stood up abruptly, his chair falling back as he did so.

"I won't stand for this! Not ours, he says?! What right has a peasant to order us around?!"

"Now Otho dear," Lobelia said, taking a seat at the table herself, removing the apron from around her neck as she did so. Her voice was calm now, but it hid a calculating and devious tone that drew her husband's attention. "I am going back tomorrow to take our possessions by force if we must!"

"And how are you going to get into the smial?" Otho asked, bending down to pick up his chair, his pipe still locked between his teeth. "He never leaves the cursed thing. He doesn't have any friends except for those irresponsible two from wayside." 

But this proved to be the wrong thing to say to his steaming wife, and suddenly Lobelia snapped, her face contorting with a blackened rage.

"I don't know!" Lobelia shrieked, folding her arms across her chest, looking away towards some unseen point as she ran the plan over and over in her head. "But I'm not letting him get away with it! We'll get our items! We will!"

"Of course," Otho answered appealingly, waving his hands to try and calm her. In their anger neither of them had noticed the pots and pans were boiling over and a weak smell of burning drifting from the fireplace.

"I will talk to our young friend tomorrow," Otho said, his own anger not subsiding, Lobelia merely looking at him to check the validity of his words. "I will certainly not be denied!"

Lobelia did not smile, but she was frowning less, and Otho took it as a sign that she was pleased. 

"Stupid little…" she muttered to herself, the knife within her hand being clutched more tightly. "He makes me so angry! Not ours, not ours!" She spun to look at her husband who was trying to light his pipe. "It is ours, and all of us know it! How convenient of him to lose the will for without it we can do nothing within the law to get our things back."

"Now dear," Otho said, but his tone held pride and cunning. "You wouldn't dream of doing anything which may damage the family name, would you?"

"Damage! Damage!" The knife was slapped down onto the table. "Hasn't that old mad man ruined the family name enough?! They are ours! Ours! And we can do nothing about it!"

Otho's pipe lit up and he took a deep draw of it, but his eyes were twinkling with some unknown plot. "He does have a lot of money, doesn't he?" Otho said looking down towards Lobelia, the devious look upon his face rich enough to stop her imminent out burst. 

"So they say," she huffed instead, looking at him warily.

Otho took another draw of his pipe. "Yes, very rich. Not many can say as such."

"No," Lobelia replied, looking at him oddly, trying to follow his train of thought. 

"Yes, I'm sure news of his wealth has spread far and wide along the Shire, and, as I said, not everyone is so well with money. Some," he said, and he looked at Lobelia with a horrible smirk, "may take it upon themselves to take some of that money." He paused, twiddling with something in his pocket, slightly fidgeting on the chair as he sought for the item. Then suddenly his voice was offhand, and for anyone who may be listening no connection would have been made between the two topics.

"There have been an extraordinarily large amount of robberies lately. Some horrid vagabond that needs to feed this or the other."  He waved his hand freely in the air, indicating the apparent unimportance of the robbers needs. "I heard four families in Buckland were robbed of everything they had just last week and they never did find the culprit."

He pulled more pipe weed from his pocket, crunched it into a fine ball, and gently deposited it into his already smoking pipe, gently prodding it deep down into the open belly. He returned his hands so they sat on atop each other upon the table, but his eyes were settled upon the flickering candles upon the walls. 

"Some are calling it a crime wave," he continued, the smell of burning now so acute that someone outside could smell it. But Lobelia and Otho were locked in their little scheming and nothing could bring them out of it.

"Imagine," he said lightly, thumbs circling each other, his tone falsely concerned. "If Bag End was robbed…well, it's no secret how much wealth is hidden away in there. A criminal would automatically head towards Bag End. If things were to go missing, perhaps, stolen," he quickly glanced down at Lobelia, a cruel smile stretching over her face to match the one on his own, "it would not be a big surprise."

"No," she agreed, feigning concern. "I'm sure the mayor has thought of this too. I'm sure he would not be at all surprised if Bag End was seemingly robbed."

"It's bound to be a thief that's responsible," Otho continued. "No one else has any motive."

"No, not at all…"

"Well then," he said, and he laughed, his hands now upon his hips. "Mr Baggins better look out, then!" he laughed heartily. 

He stood up from his chair, hand extended towards Lobelia who took it, her own grim smile flickering as she fought to rid herself of it. 

"I think," Otho said. "We should celebrate in the Green Dragon tonight." He nodded towards the burning chunk of meat above the fire. "That is too far gone to save."

"Not that we have anything to celebrate," she said lightly, and together they laughed, entwined their fingers around each others, and headed towards the door.

TBC

In the next chapter Shelob turns up! Oh…wait…no she doesn't…note to self: Don't put Shelob in this fanfic. Second not to self: see psychiatrist regarding obsession with Shelob…


	2. An unfortunate run in

**Title: A Little Adventure**

**Author: Ice Princess******

**Summary: Lobelia, convinced that she's owed more than Bilbo left her, goes to Bag End and takes a few items that don't belong to her… **

**Rating: PG13 (to be safe)**

**Disclaimer:** all characters and places are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note:            Many thanks to ****Nicole Sabatti for ruling the universe.**

**Author's note:            The ages of the characters are: Merry 21, Sam 23, Pippin 13 (and yes he is drunk in this fic), Frodo 35.**

**_Very important:      __For the purpose of this fic the conspiracy was formed immediately after Bilbo disappeared at the Long Expected Party rather than in the Spring before Frodo left on the quest. However, Merry has not informed Sam and Pippin of the ring; they have only been told to watch Frodo and report any suspicious behaviour. Sam is spying on Frodo but he has not been given a valid reason for it other than Merry's fear that Frodo will abandon them. This will be explained next chapter…_**

**Tathar:**blushes** Thank you so much for your lovely words of support! It means so much to me to get reviews from prestigious writers such as yourself. The S.Bs and Frodo do have a run in but it isn't going to turn out as perhaps you'd expect…read on below! Devious Otho and his plans…**

**Mainframe: I'm really glad that you liked it! This fic will concentrate on one adventure and it won't leave billions of questions. At least, that's the intention…As for Lobelia, well, I'm trying to keep them in character as much as possible, but I think she's had the last straw where Frodo is concerned. **

**Shirebound: I can't begin to thank you enough for saving me from a very embarrassing mistake. It has been a while since I've read the books so I couldn't quite remember whether it was Otho or Lotho that was Lobelia's husband. My copy of LOTR has been lent to a friend of mine _(why did I do it, why?!) so I couldn't check. Also thank you for your lovely words of encouragement! I'll try not to let you down!_**

**GreyLadyBast: Wow! You love Shelob too? I thought I was the only one!Yay! Let us meet and talk of memories past! lol. Shelob is my third favourite character in the series, beaten only by Frodo, at number one, and Sam, at number two. There will be more to the story, but I haven't got a clue how much more. I'm just making it up as I go along. All the thanks for this fic should go to Nicole Sabatti though, for she actually had the idea. I nicked it when she let her guard down.**

**Fool of a Took: I do like your nice padded room. Are you allowed sharp objects? I am not without some form of supervision, preferably adult. My walls are also padded and every Thursday they let me rock back and forth murmuring "soon" as I gaze longingly at a calendar that forever sits on December… lol. Thanks for your lovely comments. After you're done with Lobelia, can I have a go? That way we could show her several things! She is going to get more evil in this fic…**

**P.N.Batgirl: Awww thank you! I love making people curious! Note to self: put loads of questions which never get answered in this fic…wait, that's my other one…As for what happens next, read on down! Let's just say Frodo is soon going to find himself in a nightmare situation.**

**Chapter Two: An unfortunate run in**

****

The Green Dragon was always a popular meeting place for the Hobbits, drawing more customers than any other business could ever claim to do. Even though it was the month of September and it was getting cooler in the evenings, hobbits still performed their daily ritual, disappearing down towards the Tavern at regular intervals during the day to share stories, gossip and pipe weed over a cool tankard of ale that few denied. It was always busy during the day, filled mostly with a few who had made a pit stop to last them until they arrived later when time would be kinder to the desire for ale, but during the night it was practically bursting with hobbits, the loud yet friendly chatter drawing more towards it like moths towards flame. 

It was easy to see why the Green Dragon was so popular: It was a friendly and warm place, a roaring log fire always burning in the hearth during cold nights such as these, and masses of tables to accommodate as many hobbits as possible. The staff were always friendly, and their generous amounts of ale that were served had been many a deciding factor on why people should attend. Yet even for the Green Dragon it was unusually busy that night, with people having to squeeze past large groups of friends, their tankards elevated above their heads to protect the liquor. Tables, though aplenty, were in very high demand. A few odd hobbits were orbiting likely looking parties of people, hinting, without words, their desire to claim the table for themselves. The second that they relinquished it, the chairs were claimed within milliseconds and another group of hobbits who had not been so quick off the mark were left to mumble in frustration and go seek more likely prey. The air was so thick with the smoke from pipes that it was almost as if one was trapped within a silk and sweet smelling cloud, and objects that lay on the opposite side of the room were blurred by the tiny threads of old Toby that everyone was happily willing to inhale.

Frodo and Sam had managed to claim a table through sheer luck for Sam ran into a spare one as he was memorized by Rose Cotton on the other side of the room, and Frodo had been quick to lay claim to the table himself, trying vainly to make the incident look intentional. It was a rather secluded table, scurried away in the corner of the room rather than focused in the centre (for Sam, seeing Rosie, had just sort of veered towards it) and it only accommodated four chairs, which suited Frodo perfectly. They had set up camp there; Merry and Pippin, already with drinks, had arrived only moments later, and since then they had been happily discussing events within the Shire, catching up on news and gossip as their neighbours did beside them. Every now and then a Bracegirdle or a Proudfoot would point towards them, amazed to see Frodo Baggins out on such a day, but Frodo bid them no attention, and he tried to ignore the wild hissing of whispered disbelief coming from them.

As was tradition, Frodo picked up his tankard, his cheeks slightly pink from the ale he had drunk that night, and he bid happy birthday to Bilbo, not caring that he got odd looks from everyone in the building because of it. Merry and Pippin, who had drunk significantly more, were well into the later stages of being drunk, and even Sam, though starting off unsure and bit recluse, had opened up like a flower to spring rain.

"Happy birthday Bilbo!" Frodo said loudly. "Wherever you are!" He took a deep swig from his tankard, slapping it back onto the table when he was done and drying his mouth with his sleeve.

"Here here!" Merry agreed, drumming his hands against the table, Pippin joining in shortly afterward.

"Happy birthday to you too, Mr Frodo, sir," Sam said afterwards, taking a drink himself, his voice raised so he could be heard over the loud banging coming from the two opposite.

"Thank you, Sam."

"Cousin?" Pippin queried from across the table, his voice thick and slurring, his youth and relative inexperience with alcohol making him more susceptible to the liquor. Merry had done nothing to stop his cousin drinking, and Frodo, though feeling responsible, could do little to try and stem that large amounts the youth was drinking. Pippin's drumming ceased, and he leaned onto the table, arms propping up his head, a drunken smile matching his glazed eye sight.

"Yes, Pip?" Frodo asked. 

"You're…you're well past it now."

"As are you," Frodo replied, looking towards the tankard, "but it is not the graciousness of age which makes you thus." 

Pippin snorted, then his glazed eyes settled upon the small amount of food which Frodo had not been able to finish: a collection of mushrooms, covered in a rich butter and cheese sauce.

"If you give me some food I will be quiet."

"You have food," Merry laughed, taking a deep swig from his tankard. "Look," he said, pointing towards the delicious pie and potatoes that were piled on his plate. "Foood…"

"But they aren't mushrooms," Pippin whined a little, but he picked up his fork and took a huge bite of the sumptuous pie anyway. He gestured towards Frodo.

"Tell us a story cousin," he asked, talking with his mouth full, Merry merely smiling and digging into his own meal. "You're very…very good at telling stories." 

"Tell us one about the elves!" Sam pleaded, dropping his own fork in excitement. "Or about Mr Bilbo's adventures!"

"I've told you that one at least three times tonight," Frodo reminded them, looking at each one of them in turn, a smile lighting his face. "I don't want to dull the story by telling it every day!"

"You could tell that story a thousand times a day," Merry said, swapping his fork for his tankard. "And still we would not tire of it."

"Tell us one with dragons!" Pippin suddenly demanded. His elbow slipped, and Pippin was suddenly resting his head against the table, his fork and food forgotten. "I heard," he continued, still not lifting his head, "that there are dragons in the Shire!"

"There are none," Frodo informed him, placing a hand on Pippin's back to make sure he had not hurt himself, but Pippin seemed perfectly content to appear unconscious and started singing softly to the wood he was faced with. 

"Are you sure of that, cousin?" Merry asked, his own interest awakened, discreetly elbowing Pippin in the side to get him to sober up.

"What about elves? Are there elves?" Sam added.

"What's it like outside the Shire, I wonder," Pippin asked through the table. Frodo suddenly became misty eyed, and Merry, underneath the table, smacked Pippin rather hard on the leg; Sam blushed deeply, looking away towards the mayor and his advisors, taking a false interest in their discussion about random robberies in Buckland.

"I wouldn't know," he admitted, not noticing Merry's small scowl, Pippin's look of shock, and Sam's sudden interest in a rather bland wall. "Not unless I left the shire mys…"

"More ale!" Pippin cried, lifting his head up from the table.

"More ale?" Merry asked, confused. He bent down towards Pippin, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and whispered in an undertone: "Don't you think you've had enough? Are you going to tell him about the conspiracy too?"

"What did you say Merry?" Frodo asked. 

"Nothing," he said innocently, pulling away from Pippin with suspicious haste. Sam started whistling in an attempt to look natural, but he didn't seem to realize that whistling was not a common practice in a tavern, and he seemed to stand out more because of it. Frodo looked towards him, confused by the behaviour.

"More ale," Pippin repeated desperately, waving his mug in the air to catch one of the maid's attention. "This mug is dangerously low!"

He continued to wave it in the air, the ale in it splashing onto the table as he did so. Frodo, looking really baffled now, just looked towards Sam to see if he was as confused as he, but Sam suddenly started whistling again. He tried Merry, who was trying vainly to look like nothing had happened. Frodo gave up.

"Pippin," he said finally, noticing that his tankard was far from empty. "Your tankard is perfectly full."

The tankard in Pippin's hand suddenly fell with a clatter, its ample contents washing over the cobbled floor. He froze, his hand still in the air as if the tankard was still in it. He looked down towards the rolling cup, but his arm did not lower. "It's not now."

Frodo cast a look at his companions again: Sam was running out of things to whistle at, Merry was really looking like he wanted to say some harsh things, and Pippin was acting so strangely that Frodo knew something wasn't right.

"Alright," he said simply, dropping his tankard heavily onto the table, his expression deeply serious. "What's going on?"

The others shot each other furtive looks.

"Going on?" Merry asked, his voice slightly worried, some invisible baton being passed to him. "Why, nothing is going on!"

The others nodded and mumbled in suspicious agreement.

"I know you, Merry," Frodo said. "I don't need you plotting things behind my back as well."

"Then you are safe," Merry replied. "We plot nothing."

"More ale!" Pippin cried.

Frodo gave him a long inquiring look. He didn't believe him, but Merry could be as stubborn as he sometimes. "I don't need you scheming," Frodo repeated. "Not when I've got my hands full with the Sackville-Bagginses!" 

"Oh good grief, cousin," Merry said, reaching for his tankard again. "They aren't after you _again are they?"_

Frodo was not sure whether it had been deliberate or not, but the introduction of this new topic set off like a house on fire.

"They were," Sam said, breaking out of his whistling with a relieved sigh. "They seemed a bit upset about Mr Bilbo's instructions."

"They're upset about Frodo getting Bag End, don't you mean?" Pippin said, an annoyed looking maid trying to clean up the mess he had just made. Pippin ignored her. "It certainly took a while for them to do something about it."

"Two years," Frodo confirmed, sighing as if some heavy weight was upon him. "Two years of constant irritation! Honestly, if they come around tomorrow I will throw them out!"

"Oh, can I help?" Merry offered.

"Can I watch?" Pippin asked.

Frodo smiled weakly. "Perhaps you should." He rubbed his temples again, sighing with a deep exasperation that none could match.

"Come Frodo," Pippin said, slurring a little. "They don't deserve to be thought of now! Forget about them!"

"I will," he promised, "when they leave me alone."

The door to the tavern opened allowing a cold wind to seep into the room. Sam shivered from the icy breeze, and he turned in his chair to look at the culprits to his sudden discomfort. Frodo, who was still rubbing his temples, did not notice Sam's face pale, and Merry and Pippin look at each other, a consolatory look flashing between them.

Perhaps it was the darkening of Frodo's mood that prompted another shift in topic, or perhaps Merry was eager to press the constant change in hopes that Frodo would forget their earlier words; either way Merry placed a hand atop of Frodo's and lightly engaged him in conversation about Brandybuck hall. Frodo was no fool, and he knew a cover up when he saw one, but he trusted Merry's judgement and hoped it wasn't anything too important.

"Cousin," Merry said, stopping halfway through a tale about Doderic Brandybuck and his latest punishment, eyes focusing on something over Frodo's shoulder. "You said there were no dragons left in the Shire."

"There are none," he said, noticing his apprehension. "None for over one hundred years."

Merry leaned back in his chair. He looked towards the door and back again. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"It's just there is a dragon heading right for us," he said regretfully. "You'd better get Sting out."

"Wha-?"

He turned around, and behind him he saw Lobelia and Otho, coats being hastened away by a hobbit-lad of 10years. Frodo quickly turned back to face his friends so as not to be seen and he buried his face within his hands. "Oh why didn't I stay in Bag End?" he moaned.

Sam went to console his master, placing a hand upon his back in a sign of comfort and support, but the shrill voice from earlier that day intercepted any words that he could have given.

"Frodo Baggins!"

Frodo cringed, but in a flash his mask of endurance and polite acceptance was quick to cover up his true feelings. Conversation in the room became hushed, and even the Tavern owner seemed to be paying more attention to the scene than he was to the overflowing tankard in his hand. For the first time that night Frodo cursed the flickering amber light emanating from the fireplace and from the candles above them, wishing vehemently that they would all go out and leave him time to make an escape, or to cloak the burning stares of his neighbours that watched and judged every movement made.

He raised his head from his hands, took a very deep breath, and cemented the well-known and maintained mask upon his face. "Lobelia," he said in what he hoped sounded a pleasant manner. He turned to face her, trying to ignore Pippin's little gagging motions, and walked across the room towards her, his friend's pitying gaze following him. He greeted her in typical fashion, bowing as ever he did, but Lobelia had her own traditions, and her shriek was his only reward for his manners.

"What on Middle-Earth are you doing here!?"

"I was having a drink of course," he said lightly, smiling. He lowered his voice so as some of the more curious hobbits could not hear them. "I hope there are no ill feelings after today's earlier business."

Otho elbowed Lobelia, and she turned to shriek at him, but he mumbled something and she silenced, a grin across her face.

"There are none," Otho said, and Frodo started a little at his kind tone. "I'm sorry that we troubled you."

"Yes," Lobelia added, her voice transforming into the innocent tremble of a child. "I am very sorry about all that business. I beg your forgiveness." 

She reached forward and clasped Frodo's own hand, and with the faintest flicker of her eyes towards her husband, brought it to her lips and kissed it. 

The Tavern erupted with whispers and exclamations of shock. This was too much even for Frodo to understand, and far too much for his well placed mask to restrain. He stared at her, his eyes as wide as saucers as she performed the act, his mouth open in a silent "oh?". Merry and Pippin were faring less well; Merry, who had been tilting his chair to watch the scene had leant too far and fallen off; Pippin innocently asked why she was being nice as monsters didn't tend to be; Sam's face displayed no emotion, but he gripped onto the table tightly, as if expecting her to swing a table leg at his master at any moment. 

She gently dropped his hand so it was free again, but Frodo could not hide all of the shock, and he still seemed surprised and bewildered. Merry was still watching from his place on the floor.

"There are no ill feelings at all, Lobelia," he said, coughing first into a cupped hand to get his voice to work. He silently bought back his other hand, and wiped the back of it upon his breeches so subtly that no one would notice, not that anyone in the tavern seemed to be functioning: The Tavern owner now stood in a gradually growing puddle of ale, and the denizens of Hobbiton looked on as if Frodo had grown an extra head. Even the warmth of the fire and candlelight seemed to have frozen.

He bowed to break the heat of unbelieving stares upon him and to gather himself rather than to be polite. "Perhaps you would care to join us?"

For a worrying moment Frodo genuinely believed they would accept, for Lobelia's eyes lit up like that of an unlawful cat's offered forbidden milk, and Otho smiled grimly, as if thrilled that he had offered.

"Thank you," Otho said loudly, and Frodo mentally cursed, "But I'm afraid we must be going back to our home. I'm afraid Lobelia is not feeling well-"  Frodo could not help but wipe his hand upon his breeches again to rid himself of potential germs-"and we must return to the smial."

But Lobelia looked far from sick, and it was only after Otho spoke of her illness that she adopted the look of it. Frodo looked at her, his expression unreadable, and Otho deliberately stepped in his way, draping an arm over Lobelia's shoulder.

"It was all this business this morning," Otho apologized, gently rubbing his wife's back, Frodo looking at him in a calculating way. "She was most distressed, the poor thing, and she does not take well to such treatment."

Sam looked on the verge of saying something, but Frodo, seeing him in the corner of his eye, interrupted his input. "I meant no disrespect, and if I am the one to have caused this, I am deeply sorry."

Behind Otho, Lobelia gave a few show like coughs to the watchers.

"Now now," the mayor said, pushing his way forward through the crowd, stopping beside Lobelia and Otho, hands on his thighs as he leaned down to peer at Lobelia where she slouched. "Are we suffering from ill health, Mistress?"

"Alas, she is ill!" Otho cried, suddenly dramatic, clinging onto Lobelia like she may faint at any moment. Frodo took the time out of the spotlight to glance across to his friends to express his confusion, and they answered with similar shrugs of their own. "Ill… and she must be tended to."

"Oh my poor back!" she cried, hand suddenly flying to the base of her spine. "Oh, Otho!"

"Hush me dear," Otho soothed, but his eyes were locked onto Frodo, who tried to look sympathetic when all he felt was bafflement and suspicion. He heard Sam ask Pippin, "Why is she coughing if she has a bad back?" and had to struggle not to ask himself. However the tended whisper was almost like a shout within the silence for Lobelia heard it too, for suddenly she was hunched over, clutching her stomach. Frodo had the impression that he and his friends were the only ones to find this at least odd. 

"Otho, dear, I don't feel well…the stress you know…"

"Of course," he replied, and the mayor tutted. 

"You should take her home," he suggested, scratching his head a bit, the curls bouncing a little at the touch. "She needs bed rest. Perhaps a doctor?"

"No….no doctor…"Lobelia said feebly. "Home…"

"If only she had not been upset so…"

Frodo did not say anything: he did not trust himself to speak lest he say what he really felt. The Mayor looked at Frodo in a strange manner, as if silently pinning blame for the evening's interruption on him, but then he was talking to Otho again, and Frodo felt the need for a very stiff drink, silently promising himself that he would never _ever leave Bag End again. _

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mayor," Otho said apologetically, one arm still around his wife and another making a grab for her coat from the small hobbit-lad from earlier. "I'm guessing that you wouldn't need this, what with the robberies going on at the moment…"

"Robberies?" Daisy Bramblebur who was seated at the door closest to the group asked in a voice filled with disbelief, small drink in her hand frozen in its ascent to her mouth. "Not in the Shire!?"

"I didn't think I'd see the day," Polo Bracegirdle, an aged hobbit who sat in the corner of the room with a pipe, input. "Robberies…"

Like a wave of fire over tinder the news spread, reaching the ones at the back of the room just seconds after the ones at the front. Suddenly the members of each table were huddled together, the heads so close that they formed a single layer of different colour hair.

"Aye," Otho agreed, enjoying the whispering all around him, Lobelia suddenly silent, as if listening. "I heard they have robbed many a family in Buckland, seeking riches and all sorts."

"But surely," Daisy continued, and Otho glanced at her in badly hidden annoyance, "not here? We don't have that sort of thing!"

The mayor came to Otho's rescue, his hands gently fingering the edge of his shirt in hesitation. "I'm afraid there have been reports of robberies," he confirmed, and the hobbits gasped, for hearing it from the mayor solidified the rumour. "Indeed," he said, turning so he saw everyone in the pub. "There have been a few, but nothing we can't take care of. I expect it will be over soon."

"Who knows who they will strike next?" Otho continued. He shook Lobelia a bit who started coughing again, as if she had forgotten that she was supposed to. "Yes, we should all be wary. I myself plan to stay home and protect my own possessions. I suggest," he carried on, and though he looked at several inhabitants in the tavern- the mayor, his advisors, and then, finally, Frodo- the young heir was positive that Otho lingered a little too much upon him. "We should all be wary."

"That is good advice," the mayor agreed, and suddenly Lobelia was coughing again, and Otho stood up straight. "We must be going, mayor. She needs rest. I will not leave her bed side till she is well again."

"As should be," the mayor complimented, pushing his way past Frodo who just stared in disbelief. "Be careful then!"

"Frodo?" Otho said, reaching out his hand. Frodo took it, ignoring the deep urge to physically assault his relative, and gave it a light shake, letting go as soon as it was possible without bringing attention to himself. "We forgive you."

Frodo smiled painfully, and he forced the rude words to the back of his head. "I thank you for it, and I wish your wife a quick recovery."

Otho steered Lobelia away through the door, her form now shaking and her back miraculously healed, and they disappeared into the darkness of the night. 

TBC

In the next chapter Shelob becomes queen of Cirith Ungol and all bow down to her. On her horned head she wears a crown of silver and gold…wait…no she doesn't…but she should…_(Ice begins to imagine said scene)_

I'm really sorry that this chapter just went on and on and on…I meant to actually have Lobelia and Otho going to Bag End in this chapter but that is going to be the next one. The next chapter may be a while because I'm going to concentrate on the last part of my other story rather than this one. I'll try and write it ASAP.

Please tell me what you think about this fic. I'd most appreciate it! 

Love you all!

Ice Princess


	3. Justified Suspicion

**Title:** A Little Adventure

**Author: **Ice Princess****

**Summary:** Lobelia, convinced that she's owed more than Bilbo left her, goes to Bag End and takes a few items that don't belong to her… 

**Rating:** PG13 (to be safe)

**Disclaimer:** all characters and places are property of J.R.R Tolkien, Tolkien enterprises, and New Line Cinema. I make no money from this Fan fiction and do not claim to own anything except a bettered sense of self esteem. 

**Shirebound:** Your comments always bring a smile to my face and I love you so much for it! As for Frodo being home during the robbery… I'm in the Frodohealers group just as you are and it would just be _wrong if I didn't have some form of accident happening within the smial. It's not going to be anything serious of course, but I just couldn't resist putting it in. Frodohealer to the core, lol!_

**Tathar:** We can all be ill! Everyone here dislikes Lobelia at the start of the books, don't they? Horrible woman! I'm trying to keep the S.Bs in character as much as possible, but it is quite hard considering what they are all ready doing. I'm a bit concerned that the characterization will go out the window (as it usually does with my fics) but I will try to keep them as accurate as possible. You'll tell me if I don't, right? I need criticism, and possibly chocolate cakes.

**LOTR Sparkling Pippin: **Yay! Blessed by Shelob? Great! Does that mean she will stop hiding in my slippers and scaring the Hell out of me when I put them on? Maybe I could use her against my enemies? Go, Shelob! Go! No, not towards me! Bite someone else! Thank you for your comments, but again it was Nicole Sabatti who actually had the idea. I really wish that I could say I have my own plot ideas which are decent, but I can't because I don't. Hmmm…can I steal some from you? Pretty please with Shelobs on top? Okay, perhaps minus the Shelobs… 

**Fool of a Took: **My sharp objects! Mine, I say! I had to break several people's backs to get these! The psychiatrist says that I should give them back but I'm happy with my crayola scissors as weapons. Besides, it keeps Shelob in check when Sam isn't around. Lobelia was "ill" in the last chapter for the reasons discussed in this chapter. You may find they don't make any sense, or that they don't actually relate to the story at all, i.e, the sky is blue, or Aragorn runs a flea circus…_(Ice looks around)_silence Ice, you've said too much…_(Ice rocks back and forth with her scissors)_

**Elven Pickle: **Shelob is great and I won't hear a word said against her! I do know about Lotho (I mixed him up with Otho at the beginning) but I haven't really thought of a way to put him in. To be honest, he might not show up in this fic at all because he's just not important to the plot as it stands at the moment. Once more, Nicole Sabatti is the one who had this idea, or at least the most important part to the plot which we haven't got to yet. I won't say anymore lest I ruin the surprise….tee hee hee…thanks for your kind words. I reward you with biscuits! _(Ice rams biscuits into the computer)_ Come on, you! Hmmm….fire…

**Chocoholic:** I hope it wasn't another GCSE down the pan, unless it was a pan of A+s! When I was at school I always found relating topics to obsessions (did I say obsession? I meant mild interest) always helped me to revise. In fact, I think my entire maths exam was just Link going around saying "Now, if I have three arrows and shoot two, how many am I left with?" Ice then wrote "Down with Ganon" as her answer so maybe it isn't a good thing after all. Come to think of it, my entire religious education exam was a Harry Potter lecture with Snape, and oddly I got full marks for that. But you said GCSE which means you're British doesn't it? Yay! Another person stuck in a rain drenched country! We are kindred spirits! Lol.

**LOTR Sparkling Pippin:** Hello again, me dear! I'm really sorry that it took so long to actually get this chapter up but I've had other fics that I've had to concentrate on (You know who you are!). I can actually concentrate on this one now so there shouldn't be any more distractions or delays. Shelob will eat me if there are.

**Tiggovon: **Hmmm, I'm not sure you should be glad that I've started to write another story…I can't write, you see? Maybe Shelob should come and sit on them? She has to do something in between torture time. Frodo is definitely not going to have any fun with this fiction; in fact this is going to be a nightmare for him. You'll find out why in chapter four/five, or at least that's the plan.

**Tiggovon****: Hello again! I think Shelob could come to the shire if she really wanted to and if she wasn't busy lurking in shadows (she has a busy shadow-lurking schedule, don't you know?). As for Frodo realising it's the S.Bs…read on! Thank you very much for your wonderful comments. It makes it all worth while! **

**Chapter three: Justified Suspicion**

Acting was not a common practice within the Shire and the demand for those who displayed talent (those few being too small in number to ever consider comprising their own society) usually lived their life without ever sharing the gift that they were born with, usually confining their uncountable skills to the rare plays that happened annually to celebrate some great event. However, Lobelia Sackville Baggins was not a good actress, but from the way her husband praised her as they catapulted from the Green Dragon, you'd think that the fiery maiden could convince a Balrog to give her its whip or for a dragon to relinquish its gold without question or attack.

 "Wonderful performance dear!" he praised, clapping strongly as they paced quickly but surreptitiously towards Bag End. "Honestly, I was blown away by such a magnificent performance! Brilliant! Excellent!"

"I was good, wasn't I?" Lobelia admitted, fanning herself with her hand to lessen the exertion of her performance, Otho nodding so hard in agreement that he looked like he was suffering from continual stomach cramps. "But Otho, was it really necessary? All of those people were glaring at me. Could we not have just left the tavern?"

"I dare say we could have," Otho agreed, glancing over his shoulder towards the lantern lit doors they hurried from. "But it was too much of a risk. That good-forsaken hobbit and his horrible friends have unknowingly given us an opportunity we can not miss! With Frodo out of the smial there is nothing to stop us getting what is rightfully ours!"

"That was no reason for my never the less astounding performance, Otho. We could have just turned on our heel and left." She wiped her mouth with her gloved hand in mild disgust, grimacing at the germs her discrimination had created. "I hope never to kiss such an abused hand again!" 

"That was a little too much, Lobelia," Otho replied in an oddly stiff voice. "I never asked it of you."

Lobelia's mouth formed a horrible grimace that she liked to call a smile. "I had to make my sentiments look genuine, dear. People were watching and it would do us no good to give them reason to suspect us." 

She looked over her shoulder. Refusing to compromise her walking speed for the important surveillance, she stumbled a little, side stepping as she tried to discern if they were being followed. Otho copied her motions, occasionally dropping so he walked at a right angle, his face pressed as close to the ground as he could get it. 

"We must appear on good terms with the scoundrel," she continued, her tone indicating how she felt about doing such a thing. "People may assume our involvement if we do not."

"Still, it was a little much."

"Jealous, Otho?" She asked innocently, battering her stubby eyelashes at him. "Of a dirty orphan?"

Otho jumped up from his semi crushed position, springing from the ground with a suddenness that looked both stupid and suspicious. "Course not!" He promised her, shaking his head furiously, but he grabbed her hand anyway, wrapping it within a grasp that tightened when he checked the tavern over his shoulder.

"What other reason were there for my excellently acted illness? I got the impression there was more than one," she said after a moment of awkward, stumbling silence.

Otho nodded. "As perceptive as usual, my dear. Dimple Shallowdown was at the bar and what with your, er, introduction to our relative, he had seen us." 

He hesitated, stealing himself for some rampant repercussion for daring to offend her wife, but Lobelia only answered his words with a swift nod, concentrating more on her hurried pacing than an opportunity to start an argument. 

"He would not have let us leave until he'd bragged to us about his family's insignificant wealth."

"Vulgar man," Lobelia expressed. "Completely horrid."

"Your illness was our escape clause," he explained, pointlessly dipping down again as they approached the path that led to Bag End. "It was also a very good opportunity to spread the news."

"Indeed," Lobelia agreed, smiling grotesquely. "Very convenient."

They stopped at the very bottom of the path, both their heads swivelling on their shoulders to check for any signs of life which may thwart their plan, but as they expected it was only the darkness of the night which met their worried gaze.

"The whole of Hobbiton is aware of the robberies now," Otho said breathlessly, a smile growing as he stared at the darkness that lay undisturbed within the smial. "It would be a shame to leave their paranoia unsubstantiated." He tutted, shaking his head with counterfeit concern. "They all ready expect a robbery. Did you see them? OrangeBlossom Sandbanks kept looking at the window as if expecting someone to leap through it and steal her pearls!"

But Lobelia narrowed her eyes at his words, and her hands balled into worried fists. "Frodo wasn't fooled." 

"No," Otho agreed. "But you certainly derailed and stunned him with confusion, dear." He squeezed her hand, once again expressing his pride and protection over her being. "By the time he figures it out we will be long gone. Besides, it matters not whether the unwanted orphan believed us or not. The mayor believes us and we have all the witnesses we need." 

"Of course," Lobelia agreed, her gaze fixed upon the round green door. "No husband would dream of leaving his wife when ill."

"Ah, hobbit customs," Otho sighed, planting his fists upon his hips in silent gratitude. "We could not have done this without it."

"Tradition can be an excellent tool when one knows how to use it," Lobelia agreed, her own eyes roving over the smial as if it were a long yearned for luxury finally found within her reach.

"Aye, an ill wife would be bed-ridden, and her husband chained to her command."

"And thus is my command," Lobelia said, stepping forward. "Let us get what is ours!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Come on cousin," Merry prompted, shaking Frodo's arm as he sat like a rag doll-still and vacant looking. "It can't be that bad. They've gone now, and we should be celebrating that fact."

"She kissed my hand," he stated, still shell-shocked, the offending limb frozen in front of his face as he stared at it with disbelief.

"Aye," Sam agreed, his index finger circling the rim of his tankard as his mind mapped out possible explanations for what he had just seen within the intoxicating contents of the clay cup.  "Perhaps her sentiments were true?" he tried, his finger pausing in its rhythmical circling, his tone spilling uncertainty.

"Honestly Sam!" Merry exclaimed with a depth of exasperation, Frodo now prodding his hand against the table to see if it still worked. "You see good in every body, even if there is none there to see."

"It could be true," he suggested, his gaze flickering from his cup to his companion, his own words weak with denial. 

Pippin snorted in response, and Merry cocked an eyebrow; Frodo merely continued to gaze at his hand, twirling it in front of his face as he inspected every cell of offended flesh.

"It may be possible, sirs."

"It's a possibility that Orcs lie in the Shire, too," Pippin argued. "Doesn't mean it's true."

"Or ever will be," Merry added.

"I did not mean to speak out of place, sirs," Sam apologised quickly, a blush creeping over his face, his tone harsh with self incrimination. "I'm rightly sorry! Me gaffer says I'm always muddling me words and speaking out of turn. Why just the other day…"

Merry and Pippin listened to Sam's self criticisms with patience and a hint of amusement, finding the act more entertaining than the hobbits that had burst into song on the table next to theirs. Indeed they let the gardener continue for some time, allowing the criticisms to rain down without ever attempting to stop him, mindless of the way the gardener's denigrations grew more intense after each one was spoken. It was only when Frodo snapped out of his reverie when Sam scraped back his chair, bowing to them as he prepared to leave for his "horrible" and "unjustified" words that he intervened, realising his folly.

"Sit down Sam," Frodo ordered, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder to prevent him from leaving. "You have offended no one with your words, and even if you had we think too much of you to allow it to ruin the friendship we hold."

"But I spoke ill…"

"…of someone who deserves much worse, Samwise." Frodo argued. "Surely you have heard me mutter a thousand curses towards them, even when a memory is all that prompts me. You have forgiven me countless times for my poisonous tongue, and I certainly will not condemn you for speaking the truth as you just did." Frodo removed his hand from Sam's shoulder. Sam did not move, and Frodo took it as a sign that his words had been heeded, penetrating the thick layer of under-confidence that imprisoned a heart of gold. Sam smiled in return, but he shrunk into his chair, obviously now uncomfortable that his words had offended one of the three others. 

"You may be right, my dear Sam; she may have been true, but my experience with them whispers that a plot is abroad- a plot that I can not even begin to fathom."

Even as he said it Frodo knew that his assumption was correct. He had experienced too many run-ins with the S.B.s to think any different. It would be like claiming the sky was green and the grass blue; it just wasn't _right. He did not tell this to the others, anything he said of that nature now would be taken as criticism by Sam, and Frodo was eager to keep him away from that for as long as he could. Pippin at least was proving useful in that way, prodding Sam into conversation with a bright smile and a tightly wrapped and perfectly co-ordinated conversational lasso. _

"Maybe she just wants to annoy you," Merry offered. "She has done little else these two years. Why change now?"

"I don't know," Frodo confessed. 

Merry's hand hit his chest pocket, and his face lit up with glee as his fingers plunged inside and withdrew a small pipe, the other emerging with a collection of crushed tobacco leaves. He offered the leaves to Frodo, deliberately ignoring the small exclamation of joy from Pippin at the prospect of more intoxication, who nodded and began to locate his own pipe within his pocket, his brows furrowing as he failed to locate the most important component to his smocking pleasure. Rolling his eyes, Merry offered some of the leaves to Sam, who blushed and looked away, evidently wanting to take the mixture but not daring to affront himself further; but at the look he received from Frodo he relented, and with a barrowful of thank-yous he took a few grains of the leaf for himself. 

"I would not worry cousin," Merry said, popping his pipe into his mouth and fumbling with a small match, Pippin now pouting within his chair for being ignored. "After all, in the end what can they _really_ do?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bag End was meant to be an impenetrable fortress according to rumour, but Lobelia and Otho had no trouble accessing the smial. The kitchen window had been left open a crack to allow fresh air to circulate, and Otho's fingers had been just thin enough to be wedged underneath the gap. Lobelia commented, as Otho yanked at the window frame, one foot planted on the wall as he pulled, that Frodo may as well have left them a key to the front door.

The window did not need much persuasion to open fully and with a swift leg up Lobelia was clambering most ungracefully through the hole, pampered finger nails scraping paint as she hauled her heavy dress through the space. Otho warned her regularly to be carefully from his guard-point, hands occasionally raised in a blind appeal as he swiveled his head to make sure they were not being watched. He needn't have bothered offering words of advice and support to his struggling wife, for Lobelia answered his request with the breaking of vases that lay on the window sill and unlady like expletives.

"Come on dear!" Otho whispered hoarsely, cringing as another valuable item fell to the floor with a crash that was like the roar of thunder. "We must hurry!"

"I don't see…" CRASH "…you…" SMASH "doing this."

She disappeared beyond the light of the moon, vanishing into the darkness that hung like a fog in the smial.

"I'm in," she whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You look a little bothered cousin. Is everything all right?"

Frodo dipped his head in a half hearted nod. Merry's gaze fell onto the meal Frodo had not finished and then at the tankard that had radically not been refilled within the past half hour. He gave a speculative "mmm" and then started sipping at his own beer, eyes fixed on Frodo over the rim of his tankard.

 "You are looking a little unwell, Master." Sam added. "Do you feel all right? Can I get you anything?"

"I am fine Sam," Frodo assured, stopping the ascent of his hand to rub his throbbing temples and settling it instead on the table top with a structured grin. "I am well enough to cope."

But from their concerned expressions it was obvious that they didn't think he could. Even Pippin, usually so stubborn when pouting, had broken away from his temporary tantrum to spare him a look of pity. Frodo ignored them, and with an exaggerated sigh he tilted back on his chair, his fingers knitted behind his head as he gazed blindly at the ceiling.

"We should forget about them," Merry suggested, signalling the end of that topic of conversation. "It's not like they can really do anything." His tone changed to a lightly mocking one as he continued. "And you should tell us, dear cousin, why you never come to visit us anymore."

Frodo tilted his head so crystal blue eyes met warm brown. "I mean no offence," Frodo defended, hands returning to roving through fabric to find his pipe. "But I have found myself locked to Bag End recently. Bilbo left me much to do and I fear that my life will not be long enough to complete the tasks he set." 

"Did he leave so much?"

"More than you can imagine, Merry. It is not easy being the executor of his estate." He fell into a nonchalant position, sitting with hands entwined and feet propped up against the table leg. "It's probably because of Lobelia," he said after a moment of thought, brows furrowing at the admission. "She's always blathering on about how she's going to break into the smial when I'm not there. She's said it so many times that I'm beginning to think it's true."

He pulled a shaky smile onto his face, displaying it to each of them in turn

"The things she said…" Sam mumbled, shaking himself, unable to rid himself of the occasion as freely as his companions. "What lies! Did you see her, Mr Frodo? That's an odd illness that she's got, if she's got one at all."

"I don't believe she was ill," Merry suggested, a hint of exasperation at the reintroduction. 

"Nor do I," Frodo admitted. "It is a strange illness indeed if she can shout down a mountain troll one minute and not be able to speak another."

"She was faking it," Pippin told them, leaning so his chin was balanced upon his folded arms on the table. "I've faked illness before to get out of my chores and I can tell when someone is trying the same sort of thing."

"He learned from the master," Merry said, slapping Pippin across the back with pride. He then turned to Frodo, smiling affectionately, but his voice lightly mocking. "I learned from Mischief himself." 

He blew a smoke circle at Frodo who swatted it lightly before it hit his face. "I didn't teach you how to skive," Frodo denied. "You were naturally so good at it that you didn't need to be taught."

"I just mimicked you," Merry countered. "I had plenty of times to study you after all. You made sure of that!"

Frodo smiled fondly at the memory, but quickly discarded it when he remembered that the impressionable Peregrin Took was his dining partner. "I was young," he offered in way of explanation, then cringed, knowing full well that although Pippin didn't appear to be listening you could be guaranteed that he would use that excuse first opportunity he got. "I know better than to shirk my duties now."

Frodo thought he heard Sam agree with him, but the weak words transformed into a cough at the look Merry gave him.

"I don't understand Mistress Lobelia," he said instead, avoiding Merry's gaze, certain he had offended the Brandybuck. "Why did she feign illness at all?"

"To get away from Frodo, of course." Merry said, taking a puff from his smoking pipe, evaporating Sam's fears with a smile. "Because she thinks he has Sting and would use it against her. Frodo would not put up with such dragons!"

"I almost didn't," Frodo admitted. "I was this close to throwing her out on her ear." He represented just how close with thumb and forefinger, and more importantly the minute gap between the two digits.

"Then you could lay claim to slaying a dragon after all," Merry said, smiling, his chair groaning as he leaned back upon it, feet slapping onto the table top. "Bilbo would have been proud."

"No sword would slay her," Sam input. "But it still seems a bit fishy to me. I mean no disrespect to Mistress Lobelia…"-"why not?" chorused the three others-" but I think she's acting odd. If she wanted to avoid Mr Frodo, why did she come here?"

"She wouldn't have known he was here," Pippin told him, shuffling forward and prodding at what was left of his now cold meal. "Cousin Frodo does not normally come to The Green Dragon on Bilbo's birthday."

Frodo sat in contemplation, allowing his friends to continue without him. After a moment he pushed back his chair, interrupting Sam's further comments about "the madness of relatives" and his own mental laughing that Sam didn't seem to remember that Merry and Pippin could fit into the category he was currently insulting. 

"Frodo?" Merry asked, the pipe dangling from his mouth clipping his words. "Are you going somewhere?" 

"Home," he answered shortly. "I feel tired and if I don't leave now I will get no sleep thanks to you two." He pushed his chair back underneath the table. 

"Old timer," Merry murmured with a smile, propping his feet onto Frodo's vacant seat. "Did Bilbo pass some of his old age onto you to carry?"

"Goodnight Merry," he said, refusing to be drawn into an argument that would see him through the night and probably through several other taverns, and, more accurately, several more tankards of ale. "Goodnight Pippin, Sam."

"Goodnight Mr Frodo, sir."

"Night cousin! Don't let the bed orcs bite!"

Frodo departed, his head slightly bowed under the intense stares of the hobbits that watched his exit until the door closed behind his back.  For a while he lingered outside of the door, and only when the drunken banter resumed-- though muffled now by wood and stone-- did he dare to relax, leaning against the Tavern door with a heavy sigh.

After the slightly claustrophobic conditions and stifling, muggy heat of the Tavern, the soft cold breeze of that autumn's night was a blessing against his slightly sticky skin.  He tilted his head skywards, eyes fixed on the blinking and flashing of the stars against the deep pool of black that made up the sky. A thin silver sickle hung to his right, its weak light ebbing into the navy waves of the sky in which it swam. He breathed deeply, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His headache temporarily forgotten, he stared into space, but his eyes and mind were locked on the thoughts that seemed to be the cause of the throbbing pain within his head. 

He had not been entirely truthful about his departure; he was not tired, and the thought of crawling from one tavern to the next on such a night to drown his worries was definitely an appealing one. 

No, it was for the Sackville-Bagginses that he returned home. 

Sam had been right about them not expecting him to be there, but turn and run was certainly not their style. Usually they would have made an extreme effort to make him uncomfortable, deliberately hanging around to annoy him until Frodo gave up and went home to get some peace. But today they had surrendered before they had even set the battle flag and that was hitherto unheard of and highly suspicious. Frodo, like Pippin, knew when to recognize a feigned illness, and by all accounts Lobelia's had been a pitiful attempt that should have fooled no one. If he had acted like that when a child no adult in their right mind would have believed him, and he would have been given extra chores along with his existing ones for his punishment. No, Lobelia had not been sick, and she certainly wouldn't run from him, so why had they left? 

Frodo frowned at the stars. "Why does everyone keeps scheming?" he whispered tenderly, his words barely audible to him against the drunken din and crash of shattering tankards. He thought of Gandalf and his hurried last words that still made no sense, despite the number of nights he had turned them and replayed them in his mind; of Merry and his friends and the suspicious encounter with them just an half an hour previous; and the Sackville Bagginses, though they at least had the decency to act strange enough for consideration. 

He pushed himself away from the door, gaze now lowered towards Bag End. He would worry about the S.B.s when he got home, and only then after a very stiff drink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next Chapter: Shelob creates her own Ring of Power out of nougat. Meanwhile, Boromir and Faramir have a skipping contest to win their fathers love, and Eowyn learns the truth behind marmalade. Lucky woman….

The next chapter (which will, in reality, finally have the S.Bs in Bag End) will be up on Wednesday the 2nd April if all goes to plan. Shelob may also appear just because I like Her.

Thanks for reading!

Lots of Love

 Ice Princess


	4. The Feast Of Bag End

**Title:** A Little Adventure

**Author: **Ice Princess****

**Summary:** Lobelia, convinced that she's owed more than Bilbo left her, goes to Bag End and takes a few items that don't belong to her… 

**Rating:** PG13 (to be safe)

**Disclaimer:** all characters and places are property of J.R.R Tolkien, Tolkien enterprises, and New Line Cinema. I make no money from this Fan fiction and do not claim to own anything except a bettered sense of self esteem. 

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far:

**Shirebound:** Hello, me dear! Yes, I'm back, and this is the chapter where I'm really grateful for all the resources we Frodohealers have at our disposal. Again, not saying anything more….mwa ha ha. I would like to have Shelob in this story, I really would, even if it meant that she was just handing peoples coats back in the Green Dragon with a farewell hiss. Lobelia won't be turning into her any time soon, although the way she is acting all ready rivals the evil of the Spider Queen. Thank you so much for reviewing. I feel really honoured--and somewhat baffled, to be honest-- that someone as successful at writing as yourself can put up with this. You are a rare gem indeed. Wait…you're not a ring of power, are you? : ) 

**Tathar:** Yep, I'm back. I've had a very trying six months which has kept me away from the internet and writing in general. I didn't realize how much I missed it until recently and thought it would be best to start where I left off. During my dry period, Shelob very kindly tried to continue this story. Unfortunately after two days of pure concentrated effort she returned with a singular piece of paper that had "hiss" written on it, and even that was barely legible. Poor Shelob… we can't blame her for trying, can we? As with the S.B.s I beg you to tell me if they seem out of character to you. I can't learn from my mistakes if I don't know they're there.  I didn't know you were a Frodohealer…hee hee….hopefully you'll like the little accident at the end. It's not much, but I quite enjoyed writing it; and next chapter….well, I'm going to love writing that! 

**Fool of a Took: **Aragorn's flea circus comes to every town in the end. I would have watched it myself had I the time and if Shelob hadn't wanted to eat people. I hear Gandalf and his party of magical tea cozies is winging its way here. I don't know about you but that makes me fell a little ill….I can assure you that the sky is blue, or at least from what I hear; In England we just seem to have a permanent quilt of stormy grey. You can just imagine Frodo and Lobelia being all lovey-dovey with each other: ("to the marriage-mobile Lobelia!") Shudder….Hmmm…I'll trade you some sharp items if you let me beat up Boromir with the skillet, and movie-verse Faramir, who makes me physically ill…(why, PJ, WHY?!) Perhaps even Shelob may reward you? She makes spiffing tea.

**A Elbereth: **Aw, thank you : ). I rewrote that chapter about four times until I was at least pacified by its "quality". I'm currently exploring a side of Frodo that I have never done before. It's actually quite hard to imagine him as anything else but the blue eyed, gorgeous, gentle hobbit we all know and love, but he certainly won't win this battle by being nice. He's going to have to beat the S.Bs at their own game.

****

**Chapter four: The Feast of Bag End**

Bag End was at that moment dark and unwelcoming. No light dwelt within the smial nor did any moonlight fall through the many windows; everything was wrapped in shadows, thick and gloomy, and the very air, still and stale, was filled with evil whispers and the silent screams of trespass to any that dare enter. 

Lobelia was such a hobbit but no doubt or hesitation could find guilt in which to take root. The darkness did not irk her and she wrapped it around her bony frame to darken her appearance against any eyes that may watch. She could not see well, but she daren't light a candle, and she clumsily followed a mental map that was proving fast out of date. She collided with a few objects that were disguised to her in the darkness, each rattling woodenly as she quickly silenced the offending item, but all in all she was feeling wonderful. Finally, after much turmoil, she would finally get what was hers.

A warm feeling exploded within her heart and seeped to the very ends of her fingers and toes as she clambered off the window sill. Oh how Frodo Baggins would rue this day! No better revenge could she think of nor any reward more deserved. She would collect what was hers from her enemies, delivering a delicious but unseen blow to that which she hated most, and he, ignorant and foolish, would be left to weep at the chaos she was due to cause. She could almost hear the incessant proclamations of confusion at the suddenly emptier smial, could see the baffled look on his face as he stroked the empty shelf that one held so much, could feel the satisfaction of knowing she had finally got one over the irritating little worm. Oh, how she would _love to see his face when he found out…_

"I'm in," she whispered; a gloating statement she could not resist.

In her mind she had all ready won. She had barely entered the smial and all ready she considered the mission complete and a success. Adrenaline had ripped the controls out of reason's hands, holding at bay the fear that she had moments before been feeling. With a swift smirk she stepped forward, arms outstretched, fingers groping the darkness, when her knees collided with something, knocking her off balance. Fear once again became her pilot and it commanded her to try to do everything at once: grab the chair that had tripped her before it fell and made a noise, and regain her own balance and confidence that her been shattered in that moment. With one hand being instructed to do one thing, and her right arm circling in a desperate attempt to restore stability, she ultimately failed to accomplish either task, and she fell with a thud just as the chair clattered to the ground.

There was a sudden burst of light and a short lived fizz, and the shadows that had betrayed her ran and hid behind the furniture. She looked over her shoulder, amazed to see that Otho had entered the smial without her knowing, and even more amazed at the flickering candle within his hand. In the light she realized how stupid she must have looked and she did not like the feeling this brought.

"You idiot!" she hissed, covering the humiliation of her position with rage. "Put it out! They will see!"

"And so shall we," Otho retorted, bending down to pick the chair that had tripped her, twisting it until it appeared undisturbed. "There is much I wish to take and I will not be denied by silly shadows."

Lobelia grumbled as she picked herself up. She lightly slapped her hands against the hem of her dress.

"Come," Otho commanded.  He took another candle and lit it, then passed it to the still grumbling Lobelia. "Skulking in shadows will not avail us. Light any room you need to, but make haste! We can not stay for long. And remember to get the will."

She accepted the candle with out a word. Otho did not waste any time and he marched to the kitchen table and began perusing its contents with a critical eye. Lobelia, however, had her own quarry to gain.

There were many trinkets and treasures of fancy that Lobelia hastened to, prioritizing their capture over the less ornate assortments that faded as the candle drew past them in her haste around the smial. Being of picky nature she had not taken much on her initial circuit (a few small vases, the odd pieces of cutlery, a couple of ivory figurines and pictures of great beauty so far dominated her arms and pockets) and still she had much room to fill. She always stopped dead when the candle light caught the rim of some gold artifact, or the shimmer of silver that demanded immediate examination.

Otho was favouring more practical things, though he subjected them to his scrutiny before he pushed them into his pocket. Occasionally she would hear him tut from the other room, obviously unhappy with the deterioration of an object he would have otherwise taken, then a series of clangs as he swept the shelf clear of all the things he didn't want. But while he had much to ascertain, Lobelia was getting more and more frustrated; she could not find a good deal of things that she had wanted, and the will still hadn't been found.

It had been Otho's idea to take the will. Somehow he had known that she had lied about Frodo losing it and he had ordered her to find it above all else. He had yet to explain his actions but Lobelia did not question them; she trusted him enough to get an explanation when they returned home.

She didn't know where Frodo may have stored it though, and randomly she went to the library and inspected the large amount of paperwork she found there, one hand patting blindly, pausing only to slide her fingers down the spine of a book that looked like it had something to hide. She placed the candle upon the tiles and knelt down beside it. She began digging at the lower shelves, hurling the books over her shoulder, not caring too much when they crashed against the opposing wall. But she did not find the will.

She retraced her footsteps into the main corridor, and sat down on what looked like a bench to decide which doorway looked most likely to give her what she wanted. By accident her hand struck the wood as she sat, and before she cursed and popped her smarting knuckles into her mouth to dull the throb, she stopped dead, and looked down at the bench with excited suspicion. Gently, she rapped her knuckles against the side of the bench-- once, twice, three times--until her smile was so big her face was in danger of splitting.

"It's hollow."

Like a whippet she leapt off the bench and began searching the overlapping rim of the cushions on the wood. Her fingers fumbled against some form of catch, and with a triumphant smirk she pressed it and heaved open the lid. 

On retrospect it was an anticlimax. She had expected this to be the home of countless riches, of legendary treasures that had supposedly slept within the walls of the Baggins' home, but instead it was mostly filled with scrolls and documents; only the faintest glimmer of gold seemed to wink at her amongst the papers.  

Never the less she piled into the contents, shoveling the parchments out from their home and throwing them to one side with but a perfunctory glance at their content. She tossed scrolls and parchment to one side, fingers searching the bottom of the chest as they struck it, desperately seeking something of worth that would explain why this chest was so well disguised as an ordinary bench. 

Her fingertips finally faltered onto an envelope, tucked away into the very corner of the chest, its suspicious position and seeming heavy weight telling her it was worth investigation. She picked it out and inspected it, sliding her fingertips over the slick surface of a red wax seal she did not recognize. Perhaps this was the will? Curious, she slid her finger nails under the seal, then, with a quick snap, opened it.

She had expected some document of great importance, or at least some map that promised to lead to greater treasure than she could dream to own; perhaps some glittering giant that held such pure beauty and expense  it had to be concealed by the grubby paper she had found it locked in. But there was nothing in the envelope but for a solitary golden ring, jeweless, dully tarnished and completely unimpressive.

She opened the mouth of the envelope wider to check the corners. Nothing. 

"A ring?" she asked in mild disgust once she was sure the envelope was bereft of any other treasure. "And not a nice one either! No jewel at all! Hideous!"

She closed the envelope, prodding the wax seal back into place. She sat in contemplation for a few moments, pondering whether to throw the dismal thing back into the chest and to resume her search for items more appealing to her taste. She shrugged and slipped it into her pocket, thinking that she could probably find a use for it later. 

Her mission in mind she returned to ruffling the papers on the floor, and finally found another envelope, this time with a green wax seal. She snapped it up, and again sawed into it, breathing a deep sigh of relief when she saw twelve signatures, and the tell-tale title of "Will". Relieved at her discovery she popped the envelope securely in with the other one, her hand on her heart in pure blissful relief. She sighed, and began throwing things back in the chest.

Unlike Otho who seemed to be enjoying making a mess, Lobelia's tidy nature demanded that she return some of the things she had evicted. She bent down and picked up one of the scrolls, curiosities making her unroll it and look more in depth at the content. She had enough time to gather that it was a map and to notice some of the queer sounding towns that were marked on it when a clatter of keys just outside Bag End's front door made her stop.

Frodo had come home.

Fear returned full force, reminding her none too gently that she was breaking all sorts of laws, whilst common sense and reason prompted her to find, preferably quite quickly, a better hiding place than the corridor immediately in front of the main door where anyone could find her, light or no. 

It was primal instincts that finally broke her free from the paralysis of indecision. She flung herself into action, pinching out the candle just as the door unlocked. Again she froze for a moment, unaware of what to do next. She could run to the kitchen, warn Otho and then…?

Primal instincts kicked in again. She flung herself into the nearest doorway, landing ungracefully into the swallowing darkness with nothing more than a few dull thuds. The door opened, allowing a cold breeze to tumble into the smial, and then The Master of Bag End entered his home.

"Thieves!"

Lobelia froze. She daren't move, even to curl against the darkness of her hiding place, which suddenly seemed quite insufficient.

"Thieves, they say!" The Master of Bag End walked past her doorway without even a glance, stopped, and then paced back the other way. "Honestly!" He stopped directly in front of her room. Lobelia crushed herself further into the wall, waiting for the outcry when he noticed the mess the smial was in.

 "Thieves…" Frodo continued to grumble, his feet thumping lightly as he paced back and forth in the corridor. "Honestly, what will they think of next?"

Lobelia breathed a silent sigh of relief. From what she could gather he was continuing a conversation with himself, and about them, if she was right. He really was an idiot. Even with all the mess she had made he still hadn't cottoned on.

He began pacing again, and Lobelia noticed too late the trail of figurines directly underneath his feet…

His foot struck, and the tiny hobbit figurine skimmed across the floor, stopping with a clank as it hit the open chest.

 "What the…"

Her heart gave a painful palpitation. In her hurried escape she had had no time to try and dim the evidence that stood out like the moon in a starless night, her instincts catapulting her into safety before she had time to even think about doing what her body had all ready done. The way the figurines had fallen had done nothing to blur the direction in which she had gone. She may as well have left him a giant arrow.

She could see him in her minds eye, head tilted as realization made itself known, deep blue eyes skipping from corner to corner to locate anything out of the ordinary. From the sound of his footsteps he was slowly retreating towards the door, and mentally she told him to run, to flee to get aid as most normal hobbits would, giving her and Otho time to escape. She waited to hear the telltale creak of the hinges as the door was opened. 

She heard nothing. Then light flared within the corridor, and something wooden was plucked from the wall.

He reappeared again, candle trembling in his hand, something long flung over his shoulder, and face set in grim determination. Lobelia had enough time and vehemence to curse his bravery, before he dawned in the doorway, eyes probing the darkness.

He walked right past her hiding place without even a glance.

Lobelia gave a huge sigh of relief as he padded away to a more comfortable distance. She shuffled forward, wincing at the barely audible rustle as her dress slipped over the floor, then carefully peeped into the corridor. 

Frodo was not to be seen.

She got up, gently, very gently, and softly padded her way into the corridor, light footed as an elf as she tip toed towards the door and sweet blessed freedom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anyone normally caught in felonious activity usually had the decency to feel either ashamed at their actions or panicked at their possible capture. Otho felt neither of these, for all he felt was pure annoyance as he heard Frodo mumble in the corridor. He snuffed out the flame of his candle between thumb and forefinger, the flame dying with a lingering, spitting hiss, wondering how it was that Frodo could have the cheek--no, the _audacity--to return to his home when they were busy robbing it. Most people would have felt rather silly thinking such thoughts, but Otho had nurtured his hatred and contempt for his relative from the first moment he had met him, and he was downright insulted that Frodo had once again managed to materialize exactly when and where he had least wanted him. It was one of the many things that Otho hated about his relative, the other things mounting beyond memorable number. He had a good mind to bend him over his knee, adult or no, but he caught himself from leaving the shadows and beginning his tirade when he remembered that he, in the eyes of the law, was in the wrong. He was trespassing on land that apparently he had no right to, and it could be dangerous for his and Lobelia's position if they were caught._

He peered around the corner, snapping back as deep blue eyes turned in his direction. Frodo's shadow grew in his vision, the head giving birth to shoulders now, and he heard his relative give a suspicion riddled and slightly frightened "hello?".

Otho pressed himself further against the wall, eyes fixed on the ever growing shadow. It slipped closer to him in fluid yet measured paces. He could see the shadows caused by his legs now. Two more steps…

Frodo stepped fully into the light. He was armed, if a chipped walking stick could be considered armed, and he held it slightly elevated over his right shoulder. However it was not the walking stick that worried Otho, for as promising a weapon as it could be he knew all to well that one as clumsy as Frodo had no power to successfully wield it. No, it was the candle holder and its carry cradled in the open palm of the hobbit's left hand that stirred fear within him, that tiny flame that threatened to strip away the shadows of his disguise. If Frodo but turned one way, or stepped a little to his left, the shadows would dissolve under that simple spark, and Otho, undisguised save for the darkness, would be caught. 

Frodo turned, and the dome of light that Otho feared slunk towards him. The shadows began to melt away. Frodo shuffled his walking stick on his shoulder in anticipation…

Suddenly there was a clatter, and Frodo's head snapped to look down the corridor just as the light fell onto Otho's face. The candle swung towards the corridor, jerking from side to side as he struggled to illuminate everything with its now feeble glow, and Otho was once again lost in the welcoming darkness of shadow. There was another clatter, and the desperate scraping of hands against a door knob that caused Otho to curse and Frodo to grip his walking stick more tightly. There was only one other person in the smial who could make that noise, unless any one else was hiding within the darkness. Otho did the only thing he could think of: he followed Frodo as he went to meet the intruder.

The sight he saw would have normally made him laugh had it not been the too close proximity of his relative. Lobelia had obviously made a dash for the door, and in doing so the things she had thrust into tiny pockets had fallen and cried as they struck the ground. She was now desperately fumbling with the door latch, from what he could tell of her faint outline, and was meeting little if no success.

The bravery that had prevented Frodo from leaving earlier was flickering now, for The Master Of Bag End hesitated at the scene. But not for long. He stepped forward confidently, candle outstretched as if it was his weapon and not the walking stick. The light rushed forward with him; all ready it was illuminating the pink fabric of her dress…

Otho had no choice but to act.

"Push it up, not down!" 

It all happened at once: The door flung open just as Frodo spun on his heel, eyes wide with panic, walking stick descending unnoticed towards him...

But it hit thin air.

Otho rushed forward with a speed his aged bones normally would not permit, arm covering as much of his face as he could. Even though Frodo had missed him (unintentional though the swing may have been) he still blocked the corridor, barricading the only escape feasible in the circumstances. It was too far to run to get to the window, and even if he did make it he would not have the time to get through it before Frodo caught him. It was only a moment before realization dawned, before Frodo fully turned and saw the truth in the light of his candle.

Otho didn't remember thinking this through-- he just acted, adrenaline giving him the power and the will to push forward, and fear gifting him the blessed relief from all reason and common sense. He charged forward, shoving Frodo with a mighty elbow in the side, and pushed on, ignoring the startled cry and then its demise as flesh struck wood. He leapt over the doorstep, grabbed a hold of Lobelia who was fretting beside him, and together they sped into the welcome dark of the night, treasure clinking together as they ran. They looked over their shoulders regularly, half expecting to see the Master of Bag End in hot pursuit, walking stick flashing in a forecast of future punishment. But Bag End was an indistinct speck now, and no creature had it bore into the night save for them. 

Lotho greeted them upon their arrival home, and was then harshly snapped at and ordered to lock the doors, draw the curtains, and then pretend to be fast asleep in his bed. As for them, Lobelia and Otho sat down as their son went about his orders and they did not even speak until the hour hand of their clock had completed one rotation and were sure the danger had passed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo awoke slowly, his eyelids struggling against a foreign sense of fatigue, his body cold where it lay on the floor. His eyelids cracked open, giving him a thin vision of a skirting board and pieces of broken crockery and figurines. He dragged himself up slowly, unable to recall why he had fallen asleep in a nest of treasures and at that moment feeling too ill too care. With an effort he managed to sit up, feet sweeping away a few figurines as he forced them sluggishly to a more comfortable position He was feeling horrible. His body ached from where it had lay prone against freezing tiles, his muscles, particularly his legs, were ruffled with throbbing cramp, and his head felt as if it had been trapped in a vice and squeezed until pain dominated all else. Trembling with the effort he raised his fingertips to a particularly tender spot on his temple, wincing as they sunk into a warm, tacky, substance. He was not at all surprised to see blood on his fingertips when he lowered his hand.

Groggily he slumped against the wall, giving his trembling muscles a reprieve from holding up a body that wanted to do nothing but sag like a sack of potatoes, hands desperately gripping onto a support beam to still the rocking motions the world was making. He tried forcing his thoughts into a more linear pattern, pushing ideas and suspicions until they formed a weak correlation that would explain why he had woken up injured, on the floor, and surrounded by smashed and broken crockery. He hadn't been drunk; he had trained himself long ago to fall into bed regardless of the alcohol level in his bloodstream, and even when he had lost all sense he would not trash the smial in such a way. 

He closed his eyes, half tempted to fall asleep and drift in a sea of ignorance a moment longer.

_"Push it up, not down!"_

The memory smashed into his mind without warning, a mental flash of himself and two others in the smial locked in some conflict he could not recall. He opened his eyes a crack, squinting at the treasures littered broken and chipped upon his floor. The words of the mayor rung hollowly in his head, another fragment of that evening dug up from beneath the layers of confusion.

"Robbed?"

The door was open, wide open, groaning on its hinges as it rocked against then towards the breeze as air currents moved in and out the smial, pulling and pushing flapping scrolls and parchments in its tidal movements.

_"Push it up, not down!"_

Frodo winced, his temple blossoming with pain as a cold breeze swept into the tender cut. He removed his hands from the beam and spread them on the floor, one hand either side to support him as he tried to figure out where his strength had gone. A cold numbness was beginning to come over him, like the coming of ice as it crept over the surface of a lake.

He had been robbed. Him. Here. And that alone didn't make any sense. Otho's words drifted into his mind. He had known about the robberies in the Shire. Had he expected this? Was that why they were acting so strange? Had they known he was going to be a victim?

Frodo's head lolled to one side, his gaze stopping on an open chest surrounded by scrolls. A thought struck him, cold and cruel.

Had they something to do with it?

He looked again at the broken figurines, at the crockery that had been spilt, at the picture frames dumped onto the floor, at the glints of gold or silver in the light from the one surviving candle. 

And that voice….

It had sounded like Otho had given that order. It had been someone wearing his clothing that had shoved him into the cabinet and knocked him unconscious. And Lobelia…she had been wearing a pink dress in the tavern, just like the one revealed by the candle upon the body of the thief he had found scrambling to escape.

Everything fell into place, like a jigsaw that, when completed, surprises you because it doesn't look like you think it should. 

That was why they had left the Tavern; that was why Lobelia had pretended to be ill: they had decided to take what they considered theirs. But surely they couldn't get away with it? It was too risky, too…

Otho's voice floated into his head again, his slimy words telling everyone about the robberies in Buckland. Of course everyone would assume that he had been robbed by thieves. How lucky, Frodo mused, that Otho had the opportunity to tell them.

But still Otho could not prove that the items were his? Frodo had his will and an extensive list of the present he had been ordered to dish out on Bilbo's departure. As long as he had those he could prove that they had robbed him, assuming they had kept the things they had stolen.

A loose parchment was caught in an up breeze, and it hovered temporarily over its brothers, landing only when it collided with the open chest.

The chest…

Frodo eyes widened, and he crawled forward, suddenly tearing at the parchments that lay littered on the tiles. Maps were tossed over his shoulder in panic, collections of Elvish poetry and stories flung aside in his haste. After the last parchment was inspected with fumbling hands and discarded, landing with a flop somewhere behind him, Frodo plunged his hands into the chest, hands scrambling through the few remaining things that hadn't been disturbed. 

The will was gone.

Frodo slumped against the chest and rested his head lightly upon the lip. The parchment that had reminded him of the chest floated upwards and knocked repeatedly against his leg. Frodo stared at it, and as he did a tiny seed of hope was unearthed under the choking sands of despair.

The list!

Bilbo's will contained everything that Frodo had been left when he had departed and, true enough, without it he could not prove that the items had been left to him in the first place. But there were some items that everyone knew lay in Bag End alone (crystal crockery, figurines of finest ivory, painted splendors of Elvish make) and as Frodo inspected the bare walls and shelves he realized with a trembling smile that they had been foolish enough to take them. Of course the Sackville Bagginses would retort that he had given them as gifts, but with this list he could prove that he hadn't, and their relationship was so well known that no one would believe Lobelia if she said he had given them to her as gifts at any other time than Bilbo's departure. 

It was a small chance, but at that moment it was all he had. But then Frodo remembered the true nature of the Sackville-Bagginses. They had never allowed him into their home before this, and they certainly wouldn't now, especially with his treasures dotted around the smial. He slumped again, head lolling into his chest. Their home was guarded by dogs as ferocious as Farmer Maggot's, and the ever present wall of neighbours and visitors. They would be extra vigilant after this. There was no way he could even get into the smial to prove that they had his things at all, and by the time the mayor may have conceded to his accusations they would have hidden them from view.

Frodo groaned, his headache returning full force as despair swept over him. There was nothing he could do. 

Unless…

Hope returned again, brighter and stronger than before. 

He could use the Ring.

Gandalf may have told him not to have done so, but as far as Frodo was concerned he didn't think the wizard would begrudge him using it on this one occasion. Besides, Bilbo had used the Ring without any dire consequence, and the wizard so far hadn't really offered an explanation as to why he shouldn't do the same. 

He sat upright, excitement flooding through him. It was almost like this was his own little adventure, a secret tale that he would tell to his grandchildren in the late winter to rouse them into fits of giggles and excited squeaks. The image was so rich that he could almost hear the children's laughter as he told them how he had outwitted his evil relatives, and could see the pairs of shining joyous eyes that looked up at him as he teased their excitement to the very limit. It was perfect! The Ring would make him invisible even to the dogs that prowled ceaselessly around the borders of their home, even to the curious eyes that burned from every window and could notice a leaf fall from a league away…

He scrambled to his knees. He would do it now, while it was still dark and the noise he would make would go lost in the darkness. He pushed himself upright, teetering as a dizzying fog descended thickly upon him. He had to get to the envelop Gandalf had sealed it in, stamping the wax with the G rune to remind him of its content. He had stored it safely, just as Gandalf had told him, hidden in the chest he had painstakingly disguised as a bench…

A cold fear swept over him. His gaze returned to the chest. It was mostly empty now, save for a few gold coins.

"Oh no…"

Frodo rushed forward, unmindful of the pain in his head. He fell to his knees, breathing erratic as he plunged both hands into the open space. The few remaining lodgers of the chest were dug out. He kept telling himself that they couldn't have known about It, that they wouldn't have taken It, that It was still there, temporarily hidden amongst the papers and his blind panic. He continued to dig, a pleading groan escaping his lips as the chest became emptier and emptier.

His hand hit the bottom of the chest with a magnified thud. He skirted the edges without success, then leapt at the few random envelopes on the floor, shaking hands groping for that familiar feel of metal…  

One after another he clutched them, dropped them when they failed to transform into what he sought, eyes already probing the tiles for another to inspect, his heart and mind pleading to see that familiar circle of gold. But there were no more envelopes to inspect, and the realization sent ripples of ice through his body. 

_"Please no…"_

But there was no mistaking the envelopes absence. The G rune was impossible to miss, the content of the envelope heavier than all save for the Will.

It was gone.

Frodo fell onto his backside and crawled away, half expecting Gandalf to rise from the chest and turn him into a toad at his failure. And failed he had, most spectacularly, even after everything Gandalf had made him promise, even after all the warnings the wizard had both hinted and declared, even though all he had to do was make sure he had kept It safe…

And then shame and anger at his own inabilities descended, and the prospect of an angry wizard lost any significance or meaning.

What would Bilbo say if he knew that Lobelia had taken his magic Ring? It had been precious to him. Frodo couldn't imagine what a sacrifice it must have been for him to have given it up, surrendering it into the hands of his careless nephew.

Frodo choked, despair crawling into his lungs, his labored breathing struggling further under the panic of loss.

Bilbo, his dear, trusting uncle. He had trusted him to guard his estate, to become the blue blooded Baggins that he himself had failed to be. He had gifted him with the treasures he had fought so hard to attain-- gone through so much to earn-- and all he had asked for in return was his pure, devoted love, something that Frodo had given him long before he had asked for it. But Frodo had created his own promise in his first night as the Heir to Bag End, though it was stored safely unspoken within his heart: he would not disappoint Bilbo, or waste the many sacrifices that he had made in his name. He would guard Bag End and all Bilbo had left him in tribute to his memory. It wasn't much, but Frodo could not think of a better way to honour his surrogate father.

In his life Frodo had tried to please his uncle, desperately seeking acceptance in a world where he had found none; and Bilbo had given it to him, unquestioningly, taking him as an heir and providing a life he would not have otherwise had. So much had Bilbo done for him, so much had he sacrificed, and so far Frodo had yet to return the favour. 

Both Bilbo's and Gandalf's trust had been misplaced. He had failed them both within only a few short years. What would they say if they saw him now, broken and alone in the ruins of the home they had painstakingly created? What good would he be in an adventure if he broke down at the smallest obstacle, shying away from the blunt pain of shame and defeat? He was a failure, pure and simple, just as everyone in Brandybuck Hall knew him to be. 

Frodo stared unseeingly at the picture of Bilbo the Sackville Bagginses had left behind. The loss of the Ring confirmed everything everyone had ever said about him: he was useless, untrustworthy, a waste of space, a mathom that was not easy to remove. Only two adults had ever dared to go against the overwhelming tide for Bilbo and Gandalf both seemed certain he was worthy of the seeds of trust they planted in him: Bilbo his magic Ring, and Bag End; and Gandalf the hope that he would keep It safe. But he had failed, and he could feel the ties of trust wither and strain under the disappointment, the light of their love dying under the now validated words of his harsh relatives:

_"Useless, completely useless. Even Daisy can do better than that and she's barely above your knee! No don't touch it! You'll only ruin a perfectly good quilt. I'll have to do it now."_

_"Oh get out of the _way_ Frodo! Go bother someone else!"_

_"I wouldn't trust him if I were you. Esma doesn't think it's a good idea and frankly neither do I."_

And Gandalf…

He could picture the look of anguished disappointment on the wizards face as he stuttered his apologies, the faint shake of his head and the clink of his staff as he left the smial, never to return. He could almost hear the rich, deep voice of the wizard:

_"Oh, you lost it? Dear me, perhaps Bilbo was wrong about you? Can't bear the thought that I'm going to have to tell him when I see him. Dreadfully disappointed of course, but then he should have picked better hands to guard his goods."_

Through the flames of shame and disappointment the Ring represented all of this: his fears, and the validity of past insults. If only he could get it back, then he could prove that he wasn't as pointless as everyone screamed he had proved himself to be….

He didn't care about the will any longer, and the bare shelves of his home no longer struck a chord within his heart. They had taken Bilbo's Ring, the symbol of the trust that had been placed upon him by hobbit and wizard, and there was no way he could get it back.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Not long until Shelob now…Did we all hear the oblique reference at the end of The Two Towers? That has to keep me going for twelve months that does! It's all right though; Shelob's day will come and I will be there with my "Go shelob!" flag when it does. 

Sorry it took me absolutely ages to write this. I'm afraid I (insert pathetic excuse here). I'm sure you can understand. _(Ice looks around shiftily)I haven't the faintest idea when the next chapter will be up so I won't lie to you and pretend that I do. I'm not very happy with this chapter so feel free to give me criticism, preferably of the constructive kind._

Thank you (and well done : -) )for reading! 

Lots of love,

Ice Princess


	5. Light of heart

**Title:** A Little Adventure

**Author: **Ice Princess****

**Summary:** Lobelia, convinced that she's owed more than Bilbo left her, goes to Bag End and takes a few items that don't belong to her… 

**Rating:** PG13 (to be safe)

**Disclaimer:** all characters and places are property of J.R.R Tolkien, Tolkien enterprises, and New Line Cinema. I make no money from this Fan fiction and do not claim to own anything except a bettered sense of self esteem. 

**Important note:** A trillion thanks to **Dear Abbie** who very kindly translated something into elvish for me. I highly recommend that you read her fic "I Fae", which is one of the most enjoyable stories I've ever had the honour of reading.

**English translation of Elvish phrase:** "Under dark shadow of despair alone is seen the light of the heart."

Sweet chocolaty cookies to all those who have reviewed so far:

**Obelia Medusa:** Me? An idol? Oh that won't do at all! I think you'll find I'm on the bottom of the evolutionary ladder where idols are beyond our capable thought processes. Besides, you can actually write, which is not something I can claim to do unfortunately. It has been difficult trying to maintain or even determine Lobelia's thought patterns, but in the end I just boiled it down to one simple fact:  she's a hobbit version of Shelob. But you don't have any problems with it. In 'The Making of a Ring bearer' I simply love Lobelia's arrogance as she just waltzes in, takes the spoons, emotionally damages Frodo and then swans off again ^-^. Frodo wasn't unconscious for very long at all, perhaps an hour or so. Sam, Merry, and Pippin reappear in this chapter because they've got nothing better to do. You may notice they have swapped personalities and that Pippin believes himself to be the guardian of all shiny things…I'll be quiet now. But thank you very much for your review. I really am so happy that people like this fic ^-^

**Tathar:** Hello again, me dear! I would have liked a bigger accident myself but it would mean making the S.B.s out of character. I don't think they'd ever intentionally injure someone. You guessed it was the Ring? Curse your intelligence! I do beg you to let me know if the characters start slipping. To be honest I don't know what Frodo looks like either- I don't think Tolkien actually described him at any point in the books.  I must admit that I mix book and movie verse Frodo into one here, having grown quite fond of both for differing reasons. All in all I prefer book-verse Frodo for his personality and movie-verse Frodo for his angelic looks, though I have definitely adopted some of Elijah's interpretations in the fic where possible.

**A**** Elbereth: You are one of the nicest people I know. I'm afraid that my writing actually worsens by twenty-fold this chapter. Be warned. You want to write like I do? Are you delirious with fever? Well, if you insist: all you do is ignore every grammatical rule in the book and slap together a few sentences that really don't make any sense. Mix with shelobs for seasoning. Me dear, you are an excellent writer all to yourself. I've been trying to read a bit of everyone's work who has reviewed and am startled by the caliber I find within. You are no exception. I only hope this chapter lives up to your expectations in thanks to your kind and caring words. : )**

**Fool of a Took: **Ah the tea cosies….where would the fellowship be without them? Up a proverbial creek without a paddle, I think. I'm glad I'm not the only one who hates movie-verse Faramir- It ruined the film for me when I first saw it.  I'll set Shelob on them when she manages how to work door handles. So Frodo is your son? Um, sorry about the whole setting Shelob on him thing…quite an accident…thought he was a postman…you know how it is…_(__Ice begins rocking). Tell his young friend Sam that Shelob would like her claw back and that she will pay him with shiny pennies of death. Much obliged _

**Bookworm 2000: **Awww, blushing now :) Thank you very much for your review. I hope you like this chapter as much as the last one. But just out of curiosity how did you become afraid? For me it was when I was five and waking up to find a big black mother (in Britain a big black mother is about 3cms big) next to my head. But Shelob doesn't count. She's funny, what with her hissing fits and all. 

**Shirebound: **You know I completely forgot about that aspect of the ring. I was trying to play down its importance and completely forgot about that in the process. Again, I can't thank you enough for pointing this out- I really do appreciate it. As I said before I'd rather know when I'm going wrong than not. Frodo's injury is going to be more relevant than you may think and than I originally planned. Besides, I'm not done torturing poor Frodo yet, and it's going to get worse before it gets better. Hee hee…I am evil… _(Ice goes off to write the ultimately evil chapter six)_

~~~~~~~~

**Chapter Five: Light of heart**

The panic that had governed all reflexes and thoughts drained away with the passing of time from the Sackville-Bagginses, dwindling insignificantly into the forgetful recesses of their minds where it could no longer serve as a beacon for the unwelcome foreigners of guilt and shame. Though their self-confidence and surety had trembled upon the sky-high structures they had built in a synthetic but successful attempt at social elevation the apparent success and escape from accusation had steadied their nerves more quickly than the steaming cups of tea they had since brewed, and the celestial body that made up their arrogance was quick to restore and expand at the reassuring silence of an autumn night. The incident in the smial had been scrubbed and blurred into a distant memory they would soon force themselves to forget, a meaningless event that would do well to be filed amongst cobwebs where it was not to be disturbed by any prodding or probing. 

The treasure they had gained lay in crowded clusters around their kitchen, the more delicate and appealing items sleeping soundly beside the tea pot and the wondering gaze of husband and wife. The return of their confidence had expelled the fear of the items they had captured, and no longer were they afraid to touch them lest they cry out in alarm and warning. Lobelia had appointed herself the sorter of their treasures, and she ruffled through them now with an approving smirk and comments more fitting to her usual persona. Otho delved into the age old ceremony of gentle-hobbitly self-congratulation: the smoking of the finest pipe weed he had in store, the prized leaf freed from the tedious rationing he would normally enforce in tribute to and in recognition of the exceptional victory.

 "Here," Lobelia said, pushing over an excessively ornate candle holder from its resting place, and then returning to the shelf and arranging a few of her newly acquired goods in height order shortly after. "We can put that in the main room: It would go perfectly with the curtains."

"These pictures would do well to go along side it," Otho offered, pointing at them with the stem of his pipe. "And those figurines. They were completely wasted in that hole."

"They were Primula's, I think," Lobelia told him, pivoting a small clay house left and right until its position met her satisfaction, "but then they do look mighty foreign."

"Which is why we'll put them in the deeper set rooms," he answered. "We can not yet risk having the more obvious ones on noticeable display."

Lobelia stepped back from the shelf, her gaze raking and judgemental at the arranged quality of the miscellaneous articles upon it. To Otho the arrangement was more than adequate, but Lobelia stepped back with an "hmm" and started swapping the places of a few. After a few more inspections she became pacified, and she returned to sit at the table with her husband to decide which items she would assign places to next. 

"Did you get anything else?" he enquired.

Lobelia nodded, but did not look away from her scouting. She dug into her pockets, throwing the last few things onto the table: a few more figurines, a few pieces of crystal cutlery, and then two envelopes; one with a green wax seal, the other a red.

"What are those?" Otho asked.

"The one with the green seal is the will," she informed him.

"And the other?"

"See for yourself."

He looked at her through the meandering wisps of smoke from his pipe before he conceded, picking up the envelope with an identifiable edge of annoyance that her lack of explanation had birthed. He plucked the red seal from the paper and peered inside at the contents, the knitting of his brows indicating the resulting mood of his discovery. 

"It's a ring," he stated blandly, It running from one corner of the envelope to the other in Otho's hopeful exploration.

"I can't wear jewellery without the jewel," Lobelia stated flatly. "I thought you might like it."

"I don't."

Lobelia spared him a look. "You won't know for certain unless you try it on."

Otho puffed on his pipe, the sweet strands of smoke like velvet as it slipped gracefully from his mouth and into the air in a jagged imitation of a circle. "Where did you find it?" he enquired, peering at the golden band in a loathsome manner. "In some horrible ditch?"

"In the chest with the will," she answered with a shrug. "Horrid thing, I think, but it seems to be of some worth to him."

"Indeed." Otho answered, but he tossed the envelope back onto the table with readable dislike, filling his hands with a fine china bowl before Lobelia could command him to retake it.

"You're not going to keep it?" Lobelia noted, her question and annoyed tone promoting Otho's suspicion into reality. "It is unmarked. Only him and us know it belongs to him, though he can't prove it. It may unsettle him to see you wearing it so openly."

"It is not to my liking," he reiterated, pushing the envelope away in reinforcement of his words, "though it seems to be to his."

 "Exactly," she declared, peering at him from over the vase she was wiping with one of Frodo's handkerchiefs. "It is of some worth to him, you said it yourself. We could use this against him. If you wear it when he is near he will surely be most shocked!" 

The idea seemed to become more appealing to him, but still he did not reach his long, probing fingers into the envelope to retire the bounty, preferring to lightly scratch one fingernail over a strange mark on the china. Lobelia's gaze bore holes through him, but he had long since grown immune to its effects.

"It would not suit me," he told her when her gaze failed to drop from boredom or defeat. "I don't care how much he likes it for I will not wear it I do not."

"Oh for goodness sake!" Lobelia huffed, nearly breaking the vase as she thumped it on the table in her annoyance. She stretched her hand out to him, the palm facing upwards. "Give it here! I'll put the wretched thing on if I must!"

"I thought you didn't like it," he reminded her.

"I don't, but I'm not letting it go to waste! He likes this ring, that at least is clear, so he'll hate it when he sees one of us wearing it."

Otho retrieved the pipe from his mouth. He looked her up and down, assessing the threat behind her words. "Go on then." He challenged. "But don't blame me when you catch something off it. Who knows where it's been."

She said nothing at his jaunt, and he picked up the envelope and passed it to his wife without further warning. She snapped it from his grasp with a crisp swipe, and dipped her fingers into the envelope.

~~~~~~~~

Frodo had often locked his imagination on adventures when he was young, forcing it to create Orcs and Dragons out of trees, and dungeons of tables or closets, until his heart raced and a synthetic fear tickled the edge of his stomach. On many days at Bag End he would assign himself a heroic duty that needed fulfilling, and his imagination would set the world in which he desired it to take place. The party tree had been his favourite place to melt away into his adventures for he knew the surrounding locality so well that he could transform the towering tree into any monster or village he desired, bending it to his will with but the faintest trace of effort. 

The adventures often took the same form and followed the same schedule. Bag End, of course, was the castle, and his uncle the honourable King that betrothed him with the sacred quest; and he in turn would be the daring hero, renowned throughout the land for his keen blade and his inexplicable skill, cunning, and overall fantastic abilities.  After the initial warnings of grave danger given by the King ("Dress up warm, Frodo, and try not to scare Hamfast by leaping out at him again") he would ready himself with his magical blade (a half broken twig he happened to stumble across one day), his iron shield (a china plate), and a magic staff (a slightly longer, less bent twig) and leap into the world his mind had created. He would circle Bag End many times, applying dangers and traps where there were none, assigning poison to puddles, spiked pits to minimal jumps, and enemies of any hobbit that happened to walk uninvited into his realm of fantasy. He defeated them all of course, his blade cutting down the Orcs that surrounded him, swinging his blade with magnificent skill as he fought his way bravely to Smaug's liar. And he would always win, breaking free from the bracken of his hiding place and slaying whatever evil monsters he happened to create on the day to the deafening applause and cries of thanks from Lake Town. As he had stood there, twig upraised in a gesture of victory, sweat trickling down his glowing face as the sun sank below the horizon, casting him a fiery blaze of splendour, he would be invaded with a sense of wonder and happiness so strong he would carry it with him the rest of the day, like a splendid trophy gifted to him for his heroic efforts. Then King Bilbo would magically appear, and together they would enter the great hall to feast and dine and discuss his glorious victory.

It had not been like this.

Bilbo had told his own tale of adventure many times to the delight of his heir. Dark, Frodo had described it as, but somehow Bilbo's bravery had shone out more because of it. And now here he was, thrust into the bosom of defeat just as his relative had been all those moons ago, and it was only now that Frodo learned the bitter taste of failure, the intoxicating effects of fear and despair. For long minutes Frodo stared at the portrait of his uncle, searching the lines of his face and the curve of his smile for an answer as to what he should do, or for an explanation as to why Bilbo had never fully conveyed how miserable adventures could be. But the portrait remained silent, the smile frozen upon the face, and the eyes dull and lifeless in the aged face, and no answer or explanation did it give to quell the emotions that sloshed inside of him. His gaze sunk with the weight of shame and guilt, stopping when it caught on a white scrawling inscription upon the portrait that he had not noticed before. He leant forward, fingers brushing over the elvish script that alone stood out in his darkening world.

"*Di vorath en-naeth er tirar aen i ngalad e-gur*."

Frodo blinked, the elvish words like the sweetest honey as they rolled over his tongue and fluttered from his lips in an impeccable imitation of birdsong. He stared at the flowing script, strength and defiance and courage growing like that of a new born star as it spreads its light into the unhappy world. Somehow those words awoke something dormant inside of him, and suddenly the axes of despair that had stripped him to such naked innocence and vulnerability shattered against a shield of resolve that encased his heart. Hope remained banished, but grim determination set his jaw and settled hard and obvious within his eyes. They may have won this time, deceiving even him with their pantomimes of innocence and gaining their treasures under the guise of deceit. But he would not cower under their invisible control. He would go down fighting, if he were to go down at all, and he would show them what it mean to mess with a Baggins.

This was not like the adventure he had envisioned only moments before where victory could be gained without the trial of pursuit. He could not summon a blade into his hand when he had none, or stop the game when hunger or boredom struck. He was a pawn, trapped in a game with no way out but from where the enemy lay, and he could fight it, as Bilbo had, or accept his fate with cowardly approval. 

The culmination of their atrocities ran angrily through him, the memories of past occurrences flitting in his mind in an attempt to resemble justification. What was it they feared? That he would stand up to them, and stand up to them he surely would. He would confront them, regardless of whether he was in a fit state of mind or body to do so. He had to act, to prove that they couldn't win, to show they could not crush him with their games. He would show them that he remained unbroken, still whole by their trivial attempts upon his well being.

He pushed himself onto his feet, his shaking legs stabilized by will power alone. The world spun in dizzying torrents, bucking this way and that as it tried to throw him into the realm of confusion and chaos, but he clung to it with a grip that could not be weakened, and the world, exhausted, settled into a trembling tunnel of vision. He pushed back his lightly blood-clotted hair from his temple, the injury losing all importance save for the mild annoyance at the piercing sting it emitted. With a determination that was piercingly bright within the proverbial darkness, Frodo Baggins forced one foot in front of the other, until the mechanical steps formed a steady rhythm and blades of grass tickled his feet and Bag End rolled out of view. No longer did he care that he was injured and weary, and that he wished to sleep until the sun rose and sunk in its eternal ballet. Determination dictated that he should act, that he should do something-_anything_- and it slaughtered any reason that crept warningly into his mind at his hasty and garbled decision. 

And so he marched on, stumbling a little as he forced wearied legs up the slight incline of a hill, and then disappeared, his strong efforts witnessed only by the clouds of fireflies that hung lazily beside his jagged path.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was drawing close to the end of the night. Rosie circled the room, systematically wiping down the table tops with a rag in the closing ritual the hobbits had begun to realise meant closing time was but a short time away. The fire had burnt down to just glowing pale red coals, the whips of heat that once lashed from the flames fading to massaging fingers of enjoyable warmth. The circular windows had long since become dark gateways to the outside world, and only the sickle of the moon that hung high in the sky could be seen through the pane. 

The din had gradually died down to a gentle and comfortable hum, the drunken guffaws and the slapping of tankards being tenderly replaced by the warm comfort of treasured gossip. Time had wrung out the alcohol lying within the bodies of the hobbits, and in their growing moments of sobriety they recognised the need to turn home.  Even the most hardcore drinkers were quaffing what was to be their last half-pint of ale.

Merry and Sam sat nursing their drinks, savouring good ale and good company. They lifted their mugs obediently when Rosie reached them and swept a dishcloth over the puddles of ale they had spilt, lowering them only when she winked away, leaning over another table as she scrubbed its surface with practised efficiency. 

"Well, I suppose we should get to our beds before they forget who we are," Merry murmured with a trace of reluctance, pushing his tankard away with a tiny scrape. "It has been a good evening."

"That it has," Sam agreed, giving the table top a complimentary sweep with his sleeve. "'Tis a shame about my master though, having to run off like that."

"As long as he doesn't run far I don't mind," Merry replied. "I don't fancy running to the Lonely Mountain to catch up with him on this particular evening."

"Nor I." 

Pippin snored in agreement.

"Will he be all right?" Sam asked, gesturing towards the sleeping hobbit lad. "He did fall asleep all of a sudden."

"He'll be fine," Merry said, dismissing Sam's worry with a frivolous wave of his hand. "Paladin gave me specific instruction to watch what he drunk and to guide him in rationing ale." He beamed at Sam who seemed all but lost in confusion as he gazed at the Took, whose head was pillowed in his crossed arms, fast asleep.

"You didn't do very well if you don't mind my saying so," he said, jerking his head at the Took, who was now dribbling on his shirt-sleeve.

"I did perfectly, I believe." Merry contradicted. "I watched him drink every drop of that ale and the headache he will have in the morning will be lesson enough, even if it is a little late." 

"That's cruel," Sam dared. "He'll be feeling right sick if I'm any judge."

"It was how Frodo taught me," Merry told him in a business like tone. "Consider me very kind that I haven't stolen his clothes and thrown him in his mother's room to be discovered in the morning, like he did to me." He pointed the stem of his pipe at Sam, and then popped it into his mouth. He looked sidelong at Pippin, the memory of humiliation becoming more appealing when inflicted on another. "Then again…"

He left the thought unfinished. Sam shook his head. 

"On your head be it," he replied. "You were supposed to be looking after him. It's you the blame will fall on, not Mr Pippin."

Proudfoots and Boffins detached themselves from the bar and headed to the coat stands, their voices mixing as they tried to differentiate between the many different fabrics they found there. Relatives clustered together for one final farewell, the families all deciding with an unspoken agreement that it was nigh time to call it a day.

"Mr Merry?" Sam asked, watching as a Hardbottle pulled on a coat that was obviously too small for his frame, and then at a Bracegirdle who looked quite baffled at the inexplicable growth of a garment that had been half the size when he'd originally entered. "Do you think Mr Frodo is really going to leave the Shire?"

Merry pierced him with an intimidating stare.

"I'm sure of it," he stated honestly. "He loved Bilbo dearly. His loss was a wound I had hoped to heal but it is obvious that I do not have the power. You have seen him, just as I have; as if trapped in a dreaming hope that something he lost and is beyond all recapture will be found if he only looks hard enough for it."

Rosie reappeared and swept their table again, a gentle reminder that they too should begin preparations for departure. They shuffled in their seats until she seemed satisfied, and then she disappeared once more.

"Begging your pardon Mr Merry but I don't like all this talk," Sam told him. "My Master isn't going anywhere. He's happy at Bag End."

"Not at the moment," Merry countered, "which is why you need to keep an eye on him. I can't watch him from all the way over in Buckland and Pippin can do little more than follow our lead."

The farewells were finally reaching an end. The groups thinned, and hardy cries signalled the end of that evening's entertainment. Rosie stopped scrubbing the plates in the soapy tub to wave a thankful farewell to a few of them, a rainbow of soap bubbles streaming from her hand and popping silently on the bar in her exaggerated gesture of relief. Merry drained his cup, preparing to follow the example of the others and go home, though he had to face the questions of Pippin's parents as to why they had been so late getting back. Sam went to get their coats after he drained the dregs from the bottom of his mug. 

"Wake up Pip!" Merry encouraged, shaking his shoulders lightly. "Come on! It's home time." 

Pippin grudgingly woke up, his eye lids blinking wearily against the pull of sleep.

"Whash shup?" He said drowsily, turning his head to find the reason for his awakening. Merry squeezed his shoulders.

"We're leaving, Pip," he repeated. 

Pippin ground his knuckles into his eyes. "What? Now?"

"Yes now," Merry said, hoisting him up from the chair and placing the slightly swaying Took on his feet. "You can't expect the floor to house you! What would your mother say?"

"As long as I was quiet I don't think she'd mind," Pippin returned with a yawn.

Sam was meeting a little trouble with attaining their coats. Hammond Banks was currently trying to argue that Merry's coat was his, despite the fact that it was clearly of Buckland make and would cost more coin than the farmer's son could ever claim to own. Merry pondered whether to intervene; he did not need to add a ruined coat onto the list of complaints Pippin's parents were bound to report to his own come sunrise. 

The door to the Tavern groaned open, the few members of the Hornblower's family finally breaking the string of farewells with decisive action. Chatting happily to their departing neighbours they slipped out of the door and sunk into the darkness beyond it. Like water that breaks through a dam, the others began to follow suit. A mixed collection of Chubbs and Loamsdowns had all ready put one foot outside the door when the cry of alarm was given.

Talk ceased, words falling victim to a scythe of panicked silence. All eyes fixed on the open doorway, ears straining to read the message in the hurried footsteps that approached. A pair of Hornblowers reappeared in the Tavern, appearing flustered and rather irked. They kept glancing at each other and muttering, heedless of the many eyes that were locked upon them. 

"Ho! What are ye lot doing?" Rosie demanded, the tankard released from her hand falling back into the tub with a thick, watery gulp. "Go home, I said! And I know this ain't your home, Reeno Hornblower, as much as you may think it is!" 

"My pardons, Mistress Cotton," Reeno replied. "But I need to find…"

"Where is she?"

Merry switched his attention to the one who spoke, the interrupting voice sounding horribly familiar even in his drunken state where enemies often became friends. Frodo stood in the doorway, blue eyes scanning the crowds that stared back in shock and bewilderment, their fingers and their eyes fixed on the bloodied gash on his temple. Reeno did not bother to continue his explanation-it was clear there was no longer any need.

"Well?" He said, glaring at them all. "I asked a question."

A collective intake of breath was his answer. As one the hobbits stepped back, a frenzied whispering snapped into being as blood oozed down the pale cheek. Sam's face blanched at the site, and Merry's jaw dropped in shock before he could prevent it.

"Who's here?" Merry whispered. 

Something was wrong, and not just because his friend was injured. His cousin's eyes were marred with a grim and dangerous determination, and ice plagued his usually jovial tone. Pippin made to move towards his cousin, but Merry gripped his shoulders tightly within his hands, clamping the young Took in front of him before he had a chance to run off and start his usual prodding and poking at the most inopportune time.

"The Sackville-Bagginses of course," he replied stiffly. "Who else?"

"They left, Frodo," Merry said, slowly sweeping Pippin behind him, stepping forward with the same care as one would when approaching a panicked and injured fawn that might do more harm to itself if not approached correctly. "Don't you remember?"

Frodo's eyes clouded and his expression settled on a light mix of confusion and annoyance.

"They're….not here?"

"No."

Pippin broke forward, his own eyes wide at the sight of blood on his relative. "Cousin," he breathed, "what happened to your _head?"_

But Frodo did not answer, and he swept out of the Tavern as quickly as he had come. For a while they all stood in differing states of shock and surprise, the only break in the consuming silence coming from the individual chirps of crickets in their midnight song. Merry's head reeled with what had just happened, and by the looks of the others he was probably the least stunned of them all.

Slowly the Tavern unwound itself from the frozen frame, and the hobbits dared to share glances of confusion, bewilderment, and excited yet subdued terror, before breaking out into hissed denial and affirmations. Sam, Merry, and Pippin stood like silent pillars in the crowds, remaining untouched by the fevered whispering of presumptuous guesses. Sam broke from his paralysis before any of them, his body awakening at the confused question he placed in the whispered pronoun of his master's name. He relinquished his grip on Merry's coat to Hammond without further consideration, abandoning the fabric to whatever fate the Bank had in store for it; and he barged his way past the still statues of his kin and friends without apology. He spared Merry a concerned look when he passed him, a question sparkling in the depths of his eyes to which Merry had no answer, even if the gardener had given him time to work the mangled words of explanation around his tongue. He threw open the door and then vanished, his voice strong and pleading as he called his master's name. 

Merry stared at the open doorway, mind ceaselessly captured in unending circles that served only to dig him further into bewilderment. A warm hand slotted into his own and squeezed tight, the little Took beside him providing the support he could not locate within himself.

"Merry?"

Merry looked down into twin pools of summer green and a comforting smile that pulled him from his shock. Without further word, Pippin guided him towards the exit of the Tavern, and they too melted unseeingly into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~

As a Frodohealer there has to be some, well, _healing_ involved in this fic. At the moment it is looking likely to be the next chapter, but then again who knows? I sure don't. Tra la la la la…

Thanks for reading!

Lots of love

Ice Princess 


	6. Valerian

**Title:** A Little Adventure

**Author: **Ice Princess****

**Summary:** Lobelia, convinced that she's owed more than Bilbo left her, goes to Bag End and takes a few items that don't belong to her… 

**Rating:** PG13 (to be safe)

**Disclaimer:** all characters and places are property of J.R.R Tolkien, Tolkien enterprises, and New Line Cinema. I make no money from this Fan fiction and do not claim to own anything except a bettered sense of self esteem. 

**_Important note:_**_ Medical practices mentioned in this chapter are for fictional purposes only. Do not try this at home!_

Thank you to everyone has reviewed so far:

**Shirebound:** There is some healing which was meant to occur in this chapter, but due to Shelob wrecking my schedule (naughty shelob, no more biscuits for you) I have been rather delayed. Hopefully it will be next chapter…ah, my favourite phrase.

**Gothic Hobbit: **Shelob said hi and also "hiss". She would also like that dress back which she leant you. We all love seeing Frodo injured, don't we? Why lie about it when it's so true! If we had our way, poor Frodo couldn't leave his house without being attacked by a gang of deadly bees. His medical insurance must be through the roof, especially considering Gandalf conned him into it. Oh Frodo, will you ever learn?

**A**** Elbereth: Here it is but before you read below first know this: I'm sorry. The ending is a bit strangled off. I'm just concentrating on actually writing it at the moment. It takes a lot of effort to even write "see spot run" now-a-days. Note to self: make that the sequel. Thanks : )**

**Carol: **Thank you, but I'm afraid you've been drinking the tainted punch I especially sent around. Mwa ha ha!

**Bookworm 2000:** Hi there. A big black mother is what we brits call a spider that can only be seen through a powerful microscope, yet we fear them none the less. This chapter isn't very good. You should turn away now whilst you still have time. Run, bookworm, run!

**Obelia Medusa: **Again, thousands of thankyous. You may notice this chapter is awful. That is because I have written anything in 8 months and I tend to lose the ability if I don't do it regularly. I hope you like the SBs in this : ) 

**Arwen Baggins:** You also received the punch, eh? It is thanks to you that I have looked into this story again. I can't guarantee how regularly I'll update but I'll try and get it done for you as soon as I can, and when I have figured out how to write again (I have genuinely forgotten). Enjoy! And thank you! (P.S. great name)

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Chapter Six: Valerian**

There were many things that Meriadoc Brandybuck could explain, if one didn't mind a slight if not total abandonment of the truth in his words. He could explain how an apple pie had vanished from the window sill where it cooled, paying great attention to removing his obvious involvement with it; he could explain just how he had missed his chores, and transform the incriminating story of as friend's guilt into a tearful tale of woe and betrayal where the guilty party were elevated to the moral high ground of saint. But this was proving too much for even his well oiled tongue to explain, for a mob of hobbits, torches in hands, following another down the lane to the smials of Bywater in the middle of the night was not something one could write off as a normal event that was under a collective misinterpretation. The strangeness of the situation could not be idly explained by some fanciful lie or a quick minded retort, nor the oddity erased by well placed comments and dry handed humour. Merry could summon no words to him that would deflect the steadily growing audience that followed behind and certainly none to his younger cousin to whom he felt it necessary to offer support and comfort. For once he was at a loss, and he was forced to trail behind Frodo and Sam, tongue lashing uselessly inside a mouth that refused to co-operate, hand entwined tightly with his younger cousin in a hope that the warmth shared between them would say all he needed it to say.

"Merry?" Pippin asked, his face brightening and then fading in the illumination of a passing torch. "Where are we going?"

"I don't really know," he admitted with a feigned smile "But it's best we follow and find out."

But it was clear that he was not the only one who had come to such a decision. The hobbits in the tavern who had just moments before been quite content to call it a night had now decided that, as urgent as it was to return home, they didn't mind making this tiny diversion to enjoy this unexpected show. By all accounts the group of hobbits that followed the four companions could not grow beyond the habitants of the Tavern, but grown it had, for the noise of their voices had awoken most if not all the inhabitants of Bywater and some of Hobbiton, and the line of trailing torches had invited more to join the adventure.

Merry glared at them all over his shoulder. The leading line seemed to consist mainly of Hornblowers who considered it their right to be first in line for discovering the event. A couple of Sandbanks and Twofoots crept cautiously in the shadow of the primary wave, heads peaking over the shoulders of those in front in an attempt to witness more than the others would allow. Beyond that several layers of mixed faces faded in and out of view in the torchlight, their amount too great to pin an accurate number. He guessed there were at least two dozen of them, and even more hobbits were probably lurking unseeingly beyond the torchlight. He was relieved to find that there were no pheasant feathers peaking from caps in the array-- It seemed the sheriffs had not yet been informed.

But no hobbit paid them any heed as they crashed over them like a wave, branching into two streams to avoid them before reforming into one. The word 'cracked' appeared too much in the surrounding conversation, and despite his misgivings Merry couldn't help but agree. Frodo was not himself, and the only explanation he could find for that lay in the open cut on his head. The memory of Old Merimac Brandybuck stirred within him, who once had knocked himself silly by running head first into a door. The wound on his head had been mightily similar to the one Frodo now bore, and Merry couldn't help but shudder at the idea that his cousin would fall pray to bouts of confusion and the loss of recognition of all that surrounded him. Without proper care he could fall into a private world of thin sanity that none could ever understand or enter. 

The conclusion he reached was not a pretty one and neither was it easy to enact. Frodo needed a healer, but Merry could not risk leaving Pippin and resigning responsibility of Frodo's protection to less capable hands. But then an answer swept across in the form of Fatty Bolger, who was currently darting his way through the crowds towards them, the sight as welcome as the glistening moonlight after a trying nightmare.

"Fatty!" Merry called, waving his one free hand in the air. "Fatty Bolger! Get over here this minute!"

He had not meant to use such a harsh command, but his solutions were thin and could not be prioritized under pointless niceties. Fatty looked a little startled at the urgent tone, but he reflected none of it when he fell into step beside them. 

"Ho! Merry!" Fatty greeted, slapping him on the back in a friendly gesture they had come to exchange. "A right party you are leading around the Shire! What's with all this commotion? You'll be waking the sheriffs next and then in what mess will you be?"

"Fatty, I need a healer," Merry told him, short and swift.

"I've said that for years," Fatty retorted, the severity of the situation not yet puncturing his cheerful demeanour and out of date ignorance.

"I mean for Frodo!" Merry cried, and there was that urgency again, sharp in the hurried words. 

"Is he wounded?"

"His head," Pippin agreed. "There's blood and everything."

"He's confused," Merry told him, bogging himself down in cumbersome explanations. "I don't think he really knows what he's doing. Tell the healer we need something for a head wound, something that can treat delirium."

"Oh my…"

Down, down, down they went, Frodo leading the way, winding through the closed wool stands and the unpacked gazebos until a smial, large and grand loomed straight ahead.

"Fatty!"

"All right," he conceded. "But where exactly are you all off to? I can't bring a healer to Frodo if I don't know where he is."

But the answer to that question lay in the twinkling lights in the smial ahead of them, at the muffled laughter ebbing from the walls, and the high gates that surrounded a smial that had been decorated with great care and splendour.

The home of the Sackville-Bagginses.

The hobbits had fallen to a stand still, almost as if the invisible cords that dragged them behind the young heir had snapped, leaving them motionless and confused of their direction. However, Frodo's purpose became painfully clear as he barged his way through the garden gate, and Sam, having no authority or invitation to enter their garden, could not catch him before he crossed the fringe of the lawn and moved out of range.

"Oh you have to be joking..."Fatty murmured, a horrified expression falling on his face as Frodo hammered at the door. Without another word he turned on his heel, sprinting off into the dead of the night with a haste and urgency that exceeded his physical capabilities. Merry wished him a speedy flight, hoping against all odds that he could bring something that would end this situation before it got too far out of hand. 

"What's going on?" Pippin whispered, and for the first time since the strange event Merry found Pippin curling fearfully against his leg. "Is our cousin all right?"

But Merry found he had no answer, and often he found his eyes straying to the wound on Frodo's head to gain one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lobelia's reaction to seeing Frodo at her door did not match the one his anger had promised. He had expected her eyes to widen in terrified realization at his presence; her legs caving in with bleak acceptance of her capture, and a satisfying squeak his only reply as he demanded his goods to be returned. But if Lobelia was feeling surprised she failed to show it. She stood, silhouetted against the creamy amber of both candle and torchlight, her face a perfectly sculpted mask of bland nonchalance. Frodo watched her hungrily for a reaction, but she gave no indication that his appearance even bothered her.

"Lobelia," he greeted icily, "I would like a word with you."

"It is late," she replied, her tone hard as steel. 

She noticed the string of hobbits that rimmed her garden fence with out a hint of any emotion, her attention temporarily diverted to bore at those that stood in the flickering dome of the few torches lit. 

"If it is words you want spoken than I will permit you one," she offered graciously, her attention returning to him like the moon to the night, "but then you must be off on your business, and I hope for your next victim it will be a far more pleasant experience than this."

Frodo swallowed, for the comment had gained a few murmurs of support from somewhere in the thicket of bodies. He switched his gaze momentarily to his unintended audience, trying to pin point the epicentres of the whispered agreements and failing. There were few hobbits that he could see well enough to be able to confess recognition of the faces, and those that he could identify dipped their heads to avoid meeting his gaze.

"Problem, my sweet?" Otho asked, popping his head around the kitchen door, completely unfazed by the two dozen or so hobbits that could be clearly seen through the window.  Otho's gaze landed on him as light as a butterfly on a flower, but there was a calculation going on behind muscle and flesh that made a quiver of insecurity shudder lightly up his spine.

"Hardly," Lobelia retorted dryly, her challenging stare obstructing the retorts he felt he should have catapulted into by now. Otho wondered lazily to her side, and like his wife he gave no clues to the thoughts knitting together in his head. He sucked on the stem of his pipe.

"Your fan club, Frodo?" He asked airily. "Really! And here was me thinking you'd grown out of silly little games."

"I have not been the one playing games, Otho," he returned. "Nor am I playing one now."

"Are you not?" Lobelia replied ambiguously.

Otho continued to suck on his pipe, but he placed a hand on his wife's shoulders in what Frodo and Lobelia alone understood as a congratulatory gesture.

"What words do you intend to share?" she asked finally, settling her eyes upon him "And why did you feel it necessary to bring the rest of the shire to hear them?" 

"I did not invite them," he said. "It was a most unfortunate accident."

Her gaze raked over his scruffy clothes and ruffled hair with a palpable dislike, yet he stood his ground--uncertain now, though he was-- and he endured the fierce judgement that burned like the flames of a dying star that pounded ceaselessly from her eyes.  The hobbits stood like silent statues within the night, so quiet that the crunching of a leaf under foot was a deafening avalanche. Though no one bore a quill or ink, Frodo could not help but feel that every word was being filed away, where imagination would feed it until it grew fat and swollen, perfectly embellished for the tradition pub tales later on.

"So?" Lobelia asked shrilly. "What has happened to you to make you come and bother your relatives at such an unsociable hour?"

"What has happened to me?" He mimicked, his voice as cold as a bare winter's night that sparkled with frost. "You should know well enough, being the ones who caused it. You broke into Bag End and stole my possessions, and now I come to reclaim them."

The hobbits gasped at his accusation, but he bid them no attention. He spoke with the fiercest authority he could derive and the most dignity he could summon, but Lobelia screeched like some tormented owl in her laughter, and Otho grew a smug smile that caused Frodo to clench his fists in a trembling anger.

"You say that I should know well enough," Lobelia answered upon recovering, her hand resting lightly upon her chest to still her laughter. "Well that I do, _Mr Baggins. You are troubled, I see that now, and that wound I see on your head has addled your brains. You know not what you say."_

"I know very well of what I speak," Frodo countered. "You will give me back what you took! And _all_ of it! They are my possessions and I do not want them tainted by your hands any longer than need be."

"If we had happened to have taken your goods, as you so eloquently put it, wouldn't it be too late for that?" Lobelia asked, and here she turned to the surrounding hobbits, her arms open in a pleading manner as she addressed them with her case. "You surely discredit us! If we had permitted this crime than we would not be so stupid as to keep incriminating evidence in our own home."

Her words were meant for him but not once did she face him, and he seemed naught but an obstacle as she slowly circled the front garden as she rained on the hobbits animated reinforcements. She pirouetted when she met the fence, and the edge of an envelope flashed in and out of view from her dress pocket, disappearing back into the fabric before Frodo could be sure he had seen it at all. 

"I see you are hurt," she stated. "You should let a healer look at that."

 "Look's nasty," Otho added from the doorway, the hobbits drinking in his words, "and it's a head wound too. Dangerous things those…"

They wore Siamese smiles that irked and worried him, deflating his confidence with their own scathing brand. Lobelia crossed her arms across her chest, her position falling into the one she always adopted when she saw victory but a small step away. The other hobbits did not notice her superior stance, for their eyes were glued to him and his wound, and they looked at it with something akin to fear as they shared snappish conversations. Lobelia continued to smirk that special smirk of hers--the one that promised bad weather when all he could see was sunshine, the one that told him that she knew something he didn't, the one she used when she knew she couldn't lose and was quite content in sharing the knowledge. There was something ominous about the way they looked at him now--as if he were a threat that they had just disarmed without his knowing.

"You lot!" Lobelia hollered, the Chubbs jumping in surprise at her address. "What are you standing around here for? Get a healer will you! The boy's not right in the head!"

"Beggin' you pardon, Mistress…"

"You'll be begging for a lot more than mine when this boy throws himself into the river!" She cried, and even Frodo gasped at her cruel words. "Go on! Go! The sooner this boy is seen the better! He's obviously lost the plot!"

"Deranged," Otho agreed.

Amongst them all there was not one hobbit who could claim to know much of the functions of the body and little save Sam knew the value of the herbs that could be used to mend such an ailment. At the time the Sackville-Bagginses diagnosis was greedily accepted as correct, and they nodded amongst themselves, as if they had been given the answer to a riddle they could not previously solve.

"I am perfectly well!" He told them. "They are only trying to deceive you! They broke into Bag End and attacked me!"

But this did not have the desired effect at all, for they broke into peels of laughter and unbelieving glances. Realization of his mistake came like a bitter frost, and suddenly he saw the situation for what it was: an injured hobbit accusing a life long enemy of a crime that was so ridiculous it was disregarded without a thought. Lobelia's comment echoed within his head:

_"I have not been the one playing games, Otho! Nor am I playing one now."_

_"Are you not?" _

Yes, he was playing a game--a game that consisted of only their rules, where being right and just did not equate to a win. He was a novice in their giant game of chess, and somehow the tables had turned the moment his foot had landed on their garden path. It had come to pass that the he, armed with righteousness, was now fighting for his life in this verbal spar. Truth was an element he had not expected to fail, his innocence a beckoning call that had somehow frightened away his kin rather than draw them close. He trod a tight circle, seeking some sign of support from the massed crowd that lay hidden in the darkness, but their empty gaze and burning whispering severed any lifeline they could have thrown him.

 "Tell me, relative," Lobelia continued. "What is your father's name? You see!" She cried, before Frodo had even digested the question. "He does not even know his father's own name!"

"No!" Frodo cried. "No! I know it better than my own! I do! It's…"

But the pitying murmuring of the hobbits drowned out his answer, and his emphatic gestures were lost on their polluted judgement. Frodo turned to them all, but he found that his command of both mind and body was gradually slipping away under the growing nightmare, and he faltered, gravity giving him a little tug that he barely overthrew. 

This wasn't going the way his determination and anger had promised. They were supposed to have crumbled into panicked apologies at the mere sight of him and then shyly hand back his possessions. But none of this had come to pass. The S.B.s appeared even amused that he had come, and they had yet to dissolve into the babbling apologies that he thought his presence would induce. He may have been the one to bring the instrument, but they were the ones playing the tune to which he danced. 

"Oh dear, Frodo," Otho said. He came out of the smial, an arm draping over his shoulders before he could recoil away. "You have given us a lot today to worry about." 

"I'll alert the authorities!" He threatened weakly. "The sheriffs… 

 "…are all ready here," Otho replied, indicating the collection of feather-capped hobbits that raced down the road towards them. "And a good thing it is too."

"You shan't get away with this!" Frodo told him, for the sheriff's arrival was suddenly something that would not assist his situation. "I will show them the truth of what you have done."

He smirked- that horrible, slimy pull of muscles that Otho reserved for only the most special self-congratulatory occasions. Frodo recognised it well, considering so many of his meetings with Otho came attached with it.

"I am not the one _concealing_ things here," he said, numbness networking over Frodo's spine at the deliberate emphasis. "I have told spoken nothing but the truth this evening. You are the one with the secrets."

But Frodo could not believe the confrontation had reached such a bitter end for him, and in a last ditch attempt he pushed away from Otho's sickening grip and turned to his friends. Pippin and Merry were set deeper into the crowd than he had expected, and Sam still hung in the front-row by the garden gate.

"Sam," he tried, abandoning the smirking relatives to their own devices. "You heard them…you saw…"

He slipped a hand on top of Sam's pleadingly. The gardener slowly looked at their entwined fingers, and gently he clasped Frodo's hand tightly within his own.

"Sam," Frodo murmured, and here at least hope remained.

It was not to be.

"Mr Frodo, you have to stop this," Sam pleaded, squeezing Frodo's hand within his own. "You're sick. Mistress Lobelia is right: you need a healer." The words caused him pain, burning his tongue and heart with the authoritative words he felt he had no place to say. 

"But they did it…" he protested weakly, Otho scoffing at his whispered remark. "They did it…"

"It's all right master," Sam soothed, stroking the back of his hand with feather light touches, his words almost lost under the din of gossiping voices. "Merry tells me that he's sent for a healer. You'll be right again in no time."

But, like the Sheriffs, Frodo knew the healer's arrival would only concrete the Sackville-Bagginses accusations and vaporise his own. The hobbits had no desire to listen to his own words, finding them dull and boring and therefore not worthy of consideration, but the Sackville-Bagginses…

"I don't need a healer," he said simply. "I'm fine."

But Sam didn't believe him, and if Merry had been the one who had sent for the healer then it was obvious he shared the Sackville-Bagginses scepticism. Frodo pulled back his hand from the gardener, unable to ally himself with Sam's reason and thus admit to a defeat that he had not considered. Their eyes remained locked for a moment, Frodo's pleading gaze and Sam's compassionate desperation leaking between them until Sam's head lowered and he vanished amid the darkness and crowds.

"Is there a problem here?"

It was Robin, the sheriff, who spoke, and from the glow of his cheeks it was obvious he had been summoned from a tavern rather than his home, but his drunken eyes snapped onto Frodo with a speed reserved normally for his next tankard of ale. Frodo's hope melted like snow as he took in the Sheriff's shocked expression and he knew then that all hope of reasoning with his companions had been lost in that moment when the sheriffs eyes fell upon him.

Amidst the strangling emotional bonds of judgement and humiliation he did the only thing that his mind could think of: He ran, to an un-harmonized chorus of "Mr Frodo!", "sheriff!" and "look out!", straight for the door into the smial…

Evidently he was more injured than his personal assessment had established for Otho appeared as if from thin air and locked his arms around his waist just before he could enter the smial. Frodo cried out in frustration and denial, and despite his efforts he could not extricate himself from Otho's grip.

"Hold on to him, Otho!" Robin ordered. "The poor lad is obviously upset."

"It's in the smial!" he cried, kicking fruitlessly at his captor. "Go on! Look! Go in the smial and see!"

"Surely there is no need…"

"You have my permission." Lobelia stated, "You may enter the smial if you wish."

 She removed herself from the doorway and gestured for him to enter. The hobbits hushed and even Frodo reduced his struggling to trying to unlock Otho's clasped hands with his nails. Robin shook his head, her bluff a complete success.

"There is no need, Mistress," he said. "You have been troubled enough this night as it is." 

He tipped his feathered cap to her and bid her good-day, and in that moment Frodo found himself totally and utterly defeated. He slumped slightly, a sharp piercing cold striking its way from nerve to nerve as he tried to understand just how and where it had all fallen apart. Otho released him with a shunt towards the fence, which he struck with a dull thud and left him kneeling limply against the fence post. 

He did not know when it happened for he was wrapped up in himself too much to care or notice, but somehow, in what seemed like the space of only a few seconds but must have been longer, he had been surrounded by the few hobbits that had seen his plight as more than just novel entertainment. He gave them little thought of course, and felt sick to the stomach as he watched Robin fire apology after apology at his deceptive relatives.

"Frodo," a voice spoke. "You 'ave t' drink dis."

He turned, though that in itself was an extreme effort. A rather large, round hobbit, dressed in nothing but a night gown,  shoved a steaming mug under his nose. Frodo recognised him immediately, having been visited so many times by the Healer that his face sometimes haunted his dreams.

"Healer Underbeach." 

"Dat's righ'" he answered. "I'd 'eard you'd been up to mischief again."

"And who told you that?" he asked tiredly, and although the healer choose this opportunity to add a mixture of crushed, lightly coloured flowers to the all ready nasty smelling drink, Frodo could see the four figures of Fatty, Merry, Pippin, and Sam watch them both with a guarded interest.

"Drink dis," he repeated, jabbing him with it again. 

"What is it?"

"Dat's valerian dat is-- picked it jus' dis morning."

He prodded him with the cup until Frodo accepted it with a look of resignation. The crushed flowers had not yet sunk into the mixture, though he doubted they would do little to dilute the taste.

"It ain't poisoned, laddy." He said. "Drink it allll up now."

He dared a glance over the healers shoulder and considered simply walking back to Bag End and discarding the hideous concoction on the road. But to do so he would have to navigate his way through the gauntlet of judgemental glances and wagging tongues, and it was a trial that he did not feel up to attempting. With no other option he tipped back his head and downed the concoction in one, regretting that decision as soon as the bitter liquid splashed down his throat. 

"There ya' go, laddy," the Healer congratulated as Frodo choked down the last of the mixture with a grimace. "Dat's as strong as I could make it, dat is."

"What was that?" he coughed.

"I told ya, dat's valerian, or all-heal. It grows in bogs and ditches." He read the look of revulsion before Frodo even realised he had adopted it. "I washed it, ya know."

"I'm glad," he commented dryly, grinding his knuckles into his eyes. A heavy weariness drowned his consciousness, and before he could understand how or why his body went completely limp and he slumped sideways, falling softly onto a bed of grass. He tried to move but found the effort to taxing, so he lay looking up at the stars and the grinning face above him. 

"What did you do?" he whispered, sleep drugging the panic that would normally accompany his paralysis.

"Do?" he queried. "Only what your body needed, laddy!"

His eyes slipped shut of their own accord. His conscience succumbing to heavy sleep, he sailed into the blissful realm of dreams where the haunted jeering of his relatives was but a distant echo of reality.


End file.
